End of an Era
by TheAsset6
Summary: In the wake of the Promised Day, there is much to be done and decided, and not just about the future of Amestris. Even so, every hero needs a break, especially after going head-to-head with a false god. The rest will be there when they're ready to face it.
1. Fullmetal No More

Chapter One: Fullmetal No more

Honestly, Ed had to hand it to them. For a bunch of military grunts with no clear chain of command and not even half a building to call a base in Central anymore, he never would have expected that what remained of Amestris's defenses would be so on the ball about rebuilding. If he didn't know any better, he would have said that they were secretly a bunch of closeted alchemists who just hadn't given enough of a damn to take the exams and use their talents for state affairs. The scene outside the hospital window was textbook alchemy: understanding the properties of given matter, deconstructing it, and then reconstructing it into something different. Those principles had been drilled into his head since he was a little kid, pilfered from his father's ancient tomes—until recently, Ed hadn't understood just _how_ ancient—and put to use in both the right and completely _wrong_ ways.

The blue and white specks outside, though, were admirably achieving only the former as they shuffled back and forth through the streets with their cargo. Some were hauling injured soldiers and civilians in the direction of the hospital while others set their sights on clearing rubble from what used to be Central Command. Most of the monstrous complex had been utterly obliterated, vaporized by Father's tantrum, but here and there Ed could spy detritus marring the view and bringing business in the normally bustling capital city to a screeching halt. Not that anybody really seemed in the mood to go shopping, as far as he could tell. Between Major Armstrong all but dragging him to the exam room he'd been waiting in for the last couple of hours and the limited sight lines he'd been working with ever since, he hadn't gotten the opportunity to survey much of the civilian sectors, but the glimpses he had gotten were more than enough to confirm that yeah, everyone _did_ remember losing their souls to that creepy psychopath. A part of him had been hoping that they wouldn't, that they'd just chalk their brief loss of consciousness up to a freaky weather phenomenon and move on with their lives. Instead, uncannily wide eyes and tormented stares had accompanied the shouts of disbelief when the extent of the damage had become more apparent to the public. Ed had spotted a few brave souls running _towards_ the wreckage of their once glorious base, offering their own assistance to a military that definitely looked the worse for wear, but the rest? They stayed as far away as they possibly could. Really, could anyone blame them?

For his part, Ed was simultaneously itching to get out there and glad for the excuse not to venture off his rented cot in the military hospital that wasn't really adhering to their membership policy at the moment. For years now, he'd been considered an alchemist _of the people_. What that meant, he wasn't always sure, but he was mostly certain that it referred to his tendency to help people out if he saw they needed it. In Liore hunting down leads about the philosopher's stone? Might as well take that novice cult leader down a few pegs while they were at it. Youswell's mine needed inspecting? Well, that clown Yoki was practically begging for someone to come along and put him in his place. The examples piled up like discarded heaps of the auto-mail he'd demolished over the years until he couldn't count how many times he'd put their quest for the stone on hold to run more altruistic errands. That wasn't to say that they were entirely his idea, of course; Al had had a hand in most of them and pushed him in a kinder direction in instances when he would rather have stayed their course. Regardless, between the two of them, they'd garnered one hell of a reputation for putting Amestris's citizens above their military duties—the duties that Mustang occasionally unloaded onto them, anyway, which were relatively few and far between.

That was what made it so difficult to stare out at the cleanup efforts without joining in, although Ed would be lying if he said that was the only concern niggling at the rear of his mind. Sure, he was used to running into the middle of the action and doing what needed to be done with or without the colonel's permission. He absolutely could have made their jobs a lot easier by just transmuting all of the debris into dust and letting it blow away on the wind, the evidence of their battle vanishing like the perpetrator that had done his best to destroy them all. He might even have been able to convince Mei to stick around long enough to heal some broken bones and internal bleeding given her attachment to Al and guilt over helping him with his ruse to get Ed's arm back. The Fullmetal Alchemist, unlike some of the others, was perfectly capable of walking out there and getting his hands dirty. No doubt about it.

What he wasn't capable of, however, was what kept him rooted to his spot long after the sun began its gradual descent towards the horizon.

Because there was no more alchemy in his future. There was no more Fullmetal Alchemist. Never again would he be able to press his palms together, picture the array he needed in his mind, and make the transmutations happen. Never again would he grasp a piece of chalk in his two flesh hands with any confidence that it would do more than draw useless pictures. Never again would he so much as transform a lump of shapeless metal into a slightly deformed, disproportionate cow.

Al could. So could the colonel, Major Armstrong, and Teacher.

His father… Actually, Ed wasn't so sure that he would be able to manage a worthwhile transmutation either. It went beyond the notion that he'd used up whatever remained of the philosopher's stone that had kept him alive for who knew how long, too. (He banished that thought as soon as it occurred to him. The situation was far too complicated for him to ponder right now, and not merely in terms of alchemical relationships.) When they'd parted ways earlier, the guy had looked like a good gust of wind would knock him flat on his butt; alchemy probably wasn't the best idea in his condition, at least not today.

Then again, were the rest any different? Mustang was still adjusting to a world without his sight, and while he'd made do with the lieutenant's help during the battle, odds were that he'd cause more collateral damage than solutions if he tried to assist in the relief efforts right now. Teacher, despite the role she'd played in the whole debacle, was a self-proclaimed housewife and happy to step aside when she wasn't directly needed anymore. That wasn't even mentioning the fact that she wasn't in the kind of shape to be up and around either, her denials notwithstanding. The Major seemed to be mostly in one piece, but he appeared to be devoting that piece solely to ensuring that Ed and Al were treated with kid gloves. That didn't leave him much time for any other military obligations.

And Al… Al wasn't practically invincible anymore, a thought that brought with it a pang of both apprehension and subsequent revulsion. That was what this whole journey had been about, right? Getting him out of that tin can and back into his own body? From start to finish, Ed had never lost sight of their goal; at times, his determination to see his self-appointed mission through had even threatened to lead him astray. That giant suit of armor had always been a double-edged sword: a blessing for protecting the only family he had left and a constant reminder of his own failures that had led them to needing it in the first place. Now, they didn't. Now, Al was himself again, and Ed should have been unspeakably grateful for that. On some level, he was.

On another, it was like the icy fingers of the Truth itself wrapped around his heart and squeezed every time he looked at his little brother the way he was now. In the gateway, Al's emaciated body had been shocking but a comforting sign nevertheless. It existed—it hadn't rotted away like Barry's. It was a solid piece of matter that Ed could drag back to reality if he could only figure out how.

But it was also weak. It was thin and frail, withered and gaunt in a way Al never had been before. The photographs on the wall at Granny's house boasted a healthy, soft blob of skin and muscle and fat. On the rare occasions that they'd visited over the last few years, that baby face had grinned out at him in equal parts admiration and mockery. _Ed_ was the one that had banished that face to the other side of the gateway with his selfishness and his hubris; _Ed_ had been the one to seal his brother inside hard, cold, unforgiving metal for four years as a result. _Ed_ had stolen everything that made that happy, _normal_ phantom his little brother and transmuted it into something unrecognizable.

And Ed was the one who hadn't deciphered how to bring his body back before it ended up too feeble to let him help with the cleanup around Central like he _knew_ Al would if he could.

Unbidden, the corners of his mouth curved upwards in a bitter smirk. As a kid, he'd always thought alchemists were invincible. They held the world in their hands and could shape it into anything they wanted as long as they had the right materials and the proper array to do it. In the end, however, they were just as helpless as everyone else.

In the end, they were just as _human_ as everyone else.

He'd told the Truth as much, and the reward for his belated realization was currently sitting in a separate exam room while a doctor issued his first checkup since he was ten years old. Unsurprisingly, Al had suggested that Ed go first; he was, after all, covered in gashes and bruises that Al's body hadn't endured. It had taken a decade's worth of insistence and the assurance that Ed would get medical attention _after_ he finished tying up some loose ends for Al to reluctantly agree to treatment, and while it was definitely taking longer than Ed felt comfortable with, he had gotten a good bit done. He'd slipped past Major Armstrong's freakishly keen eyes to wash the blood off his face and hastily wrap a bandage around the hole in his left arm before returning to the cavern beneath Central where he'd left a particularly important parcel. He'd seen to it that Pride— _Selim_ , he firmly reminded himself—was delivered to Mrs. Bradley, who was the only person on the planet he thought might actually take care of the kid after all that had happened rather than treating him like some kind of science experiment. He'd…

He'd…

Well, okay, maybe he hadn't gotten done _that_ much before Armstrong caught up with him and hauled his butt to the hospital to be admitted. Still, it was enough to keep him from feeling entirely useless as he sat around and waited for his turn, the rest of the military doing their best outside the window even though they seemed to be an entire world away for all the assistance he could offer them.

Ed didn't regret giving up his alchemy. Not in the slightest.

But he _was_ restless, and that was going to take some getting used to.

"Mr. Elric?"

Starting slightly, Ed glanced over his shoulder as the door creaked open and a doctor slipped calmly into the room. Just like the guys outside, Ed had to hand it to him as well: he looked pretty calm for someone who was probably running all over the building taking care of the sudden influx of patients they'd acquired in the last few hours. That was really the only explanation for why he was here, anyway. Ordinarily, Ed saw the same doctor on each of his visits. It was just convenient that way: they wouldn't waste time going through the customary explanations (see: _excuses_ ) for his auto-mail if his physician already thought he knew. Given the varying states of disarray Ed had been admitted for in the past, that was a saving grace, especially in instances where he didn't have the energy to filter his mouth before something untoward slipped out. Al had always been there with him and could recite the comprehensive list of health needs he'd had since he was born, but why put him through that each and every time? Talk about a hassle.

However, it appeared that the usual physician wasn't available today. Odds were that he was off caring for someone else, which left this poor guy to mop up the former Fullmetal Alchemist and his brother.

 _Could be worse. He could be saddled with the colonel_ , Ed snickered to himself, more out of habit than any real animosity. All things considered, Mustang had been a pretty big help out there. It wasn't often that Ed could say without a hint of sarcasm that they had worked well together, but today… Today was different. They'd never be friends or anything—the colonel was just too damn annoying for that—but Ed was mature enough to grudgingly admit that it hadn't been so bad battling side by side on the front lines.

 _Once_.

And he was _never_ saying that out loud.

Clearing his throat and the sacrilegious thoughts from his head, Ed shifted around on the bed to face the doctor and asked the only question that really mattered: "How's Al?"

His temporary physician straightened his glasses as he glanced down at the papers he was holding and replied, "Most of his muscles have severely atrophied, and it'll take some time before we start him on any solid food. Otherwise, he's healthier than expected for someone in his…position."

 _His position, huh?_

Ed had to bite back the urge to indignantly ask what _position_ that might be, swallowing his temper and pride alike to nod instead. Despite the show he'd put on outside with his unprecedented attempt at human transmutation (at least, as far as the general population was concerned), there were still merely a handful of people who knew the truth of how they had been reduced to a walking suit of armor and a two-limbed teenager. To everyone else, the world of alchemy was just full of craziness that couldn't always be controlled, and a couple of kids had gotten caught up in that maelstrom of weirdness. If he had it his way, they'd keep on thinking that—his new doctor and his curious gaze included. The alternative made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. There was no telling what was going to happen with the government in ruins and no clear leader in place, but one fact remained incontrovertible: if anyone found out about his previous experiment with human transmutation, he would eventually be held accountable for it. And if he was held accountable for it, that meant he _wouldn't_ be there to make sure Al got back home safe and sound. The Elric brothers hadn't been separated yet, and Ed wasn't about to let it happen now.

So, rather than tell the good doctor to spit out what he actually wanted to ask, he offered the guy a terse smile and hedged, "That's good."

Man, compliance tasted _awful_.

It wasn't a total loss, though. Seeming to realize that he wasn't going to get his answers and was vastly outranked here, the physician merely nodded stiffly and continued, "Major Armstrong is with him. We've arranged for both of you to share a room, so you can join them once we'v—"

"Whoa, hold on a second!" Scoffing, Ed gestured vaguely towards himself and retorted, "What do _I_ need a room for?"

"I have strict orders from Major Armstrong to admit you _and_ your brother."

"But _why_? I'm not even hurt!"

"That's up to me to decide," countered the doctor with the easy authority of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed without question when it came to medical advice.

Obviously, the guy had never met an Elric before. Unfortunately, that didn't mean he wasn't equipped to handle one.

Ed's persistent arguments and generous bribes fell on deaf ears, the doctor pretending not to hear when he made a smart remark or attempted to wheedle an early discharge out of him. In fact, by the time they actually reached the part where Ed had to remove his shirt and the pitiful excuse for a bandage on his arm, he'd pretty much resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't getting out of this. He and the Major shared a rank, but the latter was borderline insane and tended to use his muscles to devastating effect, so it was no wonder the physician chose to follow his instructions rather than placating Ed's irritation. He wasn't about to go down without a fight, though, so the rest of his examination was punctuated by the occasional muttered barbs and witticisms that were designed to get under the doctor's skin given that they certainly wouldn't get him out of the hospital.

 _But hey_ , a little voice in his head that he refused to acknowledge whispered, _it'll be easier to make sure Al's all right if I'm here. The last thing I need is him rushing out too soon because of me._

Much as he wanted to, there was no denying that his concern was a two-way street. It was his job as a big brother to make sure Al was taken care of, whether that was here in Central or back home in Resembool. Ed may not have done a perfect job with that; really, he'd screwed up so often that he was sort of surprised no one had suggested Al ditch him and head back to stay with the Rockbells. Still, he was doing his best, and he knew that Al felt the same way. After all, how many times had Ed needed him watching his back? If Al hadn't been there… Well, suffice it to say that there were plenty of instances where Ed wasn't sure he would be sitting here at all if that big hunk of steel hadn't been at his side.

So, he couldn't be selfish. He couldn't run off and leave Al on his own any more than he could justify discharging both of them when his little brother _needed_ to stay.

And…admittedly, he didn't feel quite as well as he indicated to the doctor for the _millionth_ time.

"Seriously, Doc, I'm _fine_ ," he sighed impatiently, waving off the physician's attempts to check his pupils again. "It's just been a long couple of days."

His caretaker harrumphed lightly but didn't press the issue. Instead, he shifted his attention from the state of Ed's brain to the gaping hole in his arm where he'd been speared by rebar. It was impossible to hide a wince of pain when his fingers probed the raw, reddening skin around Ed's wound, and he worked double time to ignore the gleam of vindication in the doctor's eyes at his reaction.

"It's a good thing you were admitted," the latter mused as he reached for a bottle of antiseptic and roll of bandages that had been brought in on a tray when Ed had first arrived. "If you'd waited any longer, you might have gotten one nasty infection. Amputations aren't standard around here, but you never know."

 _Oh, yeah. Nice and subtle._

Appropriately chastised, Ed dropped his gaze to the sterile tile floor without replying. Amputation— _any_ mention of losing limbs, really—wasn't a topic of conversation that he wanted to entertain _ever_.

Fortunately, the physician must have taken his lack of response for the strategic retreat that it was, because he didn't drop any other veiled insults in the few minutes it took to treat him. Without Ed's snarky comments to field, all he had to deal with was patching him up and getting him the hell out of there, which took significantly less time than Ed had expected. The bulk of it was spent stitching together the laceration on his left arm, bandaging the scrapes and cuts on his face, and giving him strict instructions to take it easy for a few days. At one point, he brought up something about reporting any sudden changes in his condition immediately, but Ed brushed it off. There was nothing wrong with him despite the gaping hole in his chest and his head where his life's work used to be, and it wasn't like he was about to do anything about that. Whatever accompanied his sacrifice would be well worth the effort—that was the whole point of equivalent exchange. His leg for the sins that would never be erased; his alchemy and his gate of Truth for his brother's body and soul. There would always be trade-offs, whether the doctors liked them or not. And really, Ed had sacrificed a whole lot more in the past. This was nothing.

Neither was the slight dizziness that clung to his senses for a moment after the physician vacated the room and he pushed himself off the cot to leave. He _had_ foregone a few nights of sleep and meals in preparation for the Promised Day, after all.

That was why he didn't utter a word of complaint, not even to himself, as he trudged down the hall in the direction of the room the hospital had assigned to him and Al. He had his brother, Amestris was saved, and they hadn't lost anywhere near as many people as they would have if Father had gotten his way. All in all, he figured they'd done enough work to earn the beds that Major Armstrong was strong-arming them into occupying.

 _Huh. Guess he lives up to the reputation._


	2. Embodiment

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading the first chapter! This story will be approximately five chapters when it is finished, so I hope you enjoy it. :)**

Chapter Two: Embodiment

"Edward Elric!"

It was a good thing he'd gotten some peace and quiet while he was waiting for the doctor, because there was nothing in life more certain than the lack thereof when Major Alex Louis Armstrong was in the room. Or, in this case, the hall.

"Heya, Major," Ed chuckled awkwardly. "How's Al holdin' up?"

The mustachioed behemoth nodded pleasantly towards the closed door he'd been waiting beside and replied, "He is resting comfortably."

"Good to hear."

"As was the news that you are in both excellent health _and_ spirits."

Was… Was that a wet glimmer in his eyes?

 _Oh, no. Not again._

Seeking to head off an imminent emotional breakdown, Ed scratched the back of his neck in trepidation and attempted to placate him with a hasty, "What'd ya expect? Some phony god is gonna need to pack a more powerful punch than _that_ to take me down!"

Aaaaaand that was the entirely _wrong_ tack. Oh, well. At least he tried.

In spite of his prior experience with the Major's inconvenient (and frankly uncomfortable) tendency to broadcast his emotions at full volume, Ed practically jumped out of his skin when he was suddenly tackled in a hug strong enough to break the bones that Father hadn't managed to, Armstrong's hysterical tears pouring down his cheeks in a cascade of mingled admiration and sympathy.

"Such tenacity! Such fortitude in the face of utter despair! Edward Elric, your bravery never fails to astound! To have been through so much in your young life and still have the courage to stand for what you believe in. You are truly an inspiration!"

"WOULD YOU GET OFF?!"

True to form, the Major didn't relinquish his hold until the waterworks had subsided, much to the displeasure of Ed's lungs. It was almost as if the big guy had completely forgotten how he'd insisted on forcing Ed to stick around the hospital _to be safe_ —unless he intended to cause some damage on his own in order to justify his decision, in which case, mission nearly accomplished.

The sole bright side of the situation, if it could really be called that, was that Armstrong's shirt had miraculously remained both on his torso and in one piece throughout the ritual. (Anyone who was even remotely acquainted with the man knew that was a downright rarity when the Major's… _passionate_ side reared its ugly head.) There was no arguing that it would have been far worse to stand in the middle of the hospital hallway, gulping down air with medically-trained passersby watching for him to keel over, if a half-naked mammoth was hovering around him. Instead, he just had to tolerate a fully-dressed mammoth who was dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief he'd pulled out of…somewhere. All things considered, Ed would take that over the alternative any day. It wasn't like he was going to shake the Major off and get some space in the near future, so why fight the tide? It hurt significantly less to simply let him have his way when they were within the borders of the same city.

Then again, after everything that had gone down in Central over the last few hours alone, Ed didn't think it would be exaggerating to say that Armstrong would probably be spying on him and Al from behind every bush in Amestris from now on. The powers that be—whoever _that_ was—might even rename him the Bloodhound Alchemist, given how seriously he seemed to take his job as their bodyguard. His orders to shadow them had lapsed months prior, yet that hadn't dissuaded him from maintaining his position as a giant thorn in Ed's side. Maybe he felt bad for them because they were technically kids; maybe it was just something specific to adults in the military, which would explain why Darius and Heinkel had stuck with him for so long rather than find something better (and safer) to do with their time.

Or maybe…

Ed hardly dared to entertain the notion, but it whispered at the back of his consciousness regardless. Perhaps it wasn't too much to consider that…they actually _cared_ about the two of them…?

 _Pfft. Nah._

How stupid. Like human transmutation, _that_ was just too idealistic to be possible.

…Wasn't it?

 _"_ _You don't have to do everything all on your own, you know. You can lean on other people…like us. Not all adults are the enemy. You can trust us."_

Ed blinked up at the still-recovering Major without really seeing him, Ross's voice reaching out to him from a different hospital room in a time so distant that he couldn't remember how long it had been since his foray into the fifth laboratory had landed him in hot water. She'd read him like a book that day, and back then, he couldn't have been more ashamed. He'd always prided himself on his independence; it was something adults had praised him for since he was a little kid. His mom had been so impressed that he'd learned alchemy on his own and taken care of Al. Mustang had recruited him when he was only eleven, an unprecedented offer, and he'd been granted nearly free rein to do whatever the hell he wanted as long as his sporadic missions were completed and his research documented. Granny and Winry… They mentioned the fact that Ed and Al never called, and he knew they worried, but even they hadn't said a word to stop them. They'd never doubted that the two of them had what it took to look after each other and themselves, nor had Teacher or anybody else they crossed paths with. And that was good, because Ed hadn't wanted their help—hadn't believed that he _needed_ it. The Fullmetal Alchemist was the youngest member of Amestris's military, a state alchemist of formidable stature. Well, metaphorically speaking. What did he need adults for? They all had other things to be doing; they all had their personal business to mind. That was why their father had left: as far as he'd known then, he'd had his own agenda as well, and not even his family was important enough for him to set it aside for so much as a second. Everyone else was the same. They _had_ to be.

That was what he'd thought in those days, anyway. That was what he had convinced himself to believe so that he wouldn't have to rely on anyone besides himself and occasionally his younger brother to get by.

Now, watching the Major mop away the evidence of his affectionate tears and beam with something akin to pride—pride in _Ed_ and all that he'd accomplished, with _and_ without leaning on others… Somehow, the kid he'd been at the start of their journey seemed so far away. It almost felt like he'd died and been buried somewhere he'd never be found again—beneath the ruins of Xerxes or the lost innocence of Liore or the snow on Mount Briggs. Perhaps beneath the home they'd burned down in a failed attempt to forget what they were leaving behind and prove that there was no turning back. Because that person who'd held adults at arm's length and claimed greater independence than maybe he was entirely capable of? He couldn't deny Ross's words or the phantom burn of her hand across his cheek when she'd tried to slap some sense into him. He couldn't ignore the sacrifices the adults in his life had made to help him, sacrifices too great to be driven solely by a sense of obligation or duty.

His alchemy may have been stripped away, but Edward Elric was still a scientist. He still dealt not in conjecture or hocus pocus, but in evidence and experiments—and each one he'd conducted, intentionally or otherwise, pointed to the same conclusion.

 _I guess…they really_ do _care._

Stiffening against the unexpected onslaught of emotion that thought evoked, Ed laughed it and Armstrong's outburst off with a dismissive wave. There'd be plenty of chances to turn all that over in his head later, especially now that his first career had effectively been canceled. For the time being, he had a reputation to protect, and it _didn't_ involve getting all mushy.

Which was easier said than done when he pushed open the door to Al's— _their_ —room and got a good look at his little brother. _Mushy_ probably wasn't the right word for the feeling that erupted in the pit of his stomach at the sight of him, though. There was still too much guilt under all the relief for that.

Okay, so Ed had to admit that _anyone_ would look tiny with Jerso and Zampano hovering over them like a couple of circus freaks. Even without letting their bodies dissolve into the bestial forms that alchemy had wrought on them, they were _enormous_. Ed's own retinue of former Kimblee associates were no slouches; gorilla and lion hybrids, the two of them were pretty sizable in their own right. Even so, he couldn't shake the memory of Jerso rearing back, his body seeming to multiply in size so that he could spit mountains of goo at them, or the way Zampano swelled threateningly just before razor-sharp thorns erupted from his back. It sort of made the two of them a little harder to look at without a shudder at the mental image.

If Al felt the same lingering nausea over the days when those guys definitely _hadn't_ been their allies, then he was doing a damn good job of hiding it under a blinding grin and a hearty laugh at whatever joke they'd made before Ed had barged into the room. In fact, his little brother may never have been trapped in a suit of armor at all for as comfortable as he appeared in his own skin. Don't get him wrong—Ed had always been intimately aware of Al's burning desire to get his body back and the heavy weight that his temporary shell had represented for him, both literally and metaphorically. Despite that, it had been _years_ since his brother's soul and body had last been acquainted with each other. Ed was having a hard enough time peering into any reflective surface and seeing the incongruous flesh arms attached to his torso; he visibly winced whenever he noticed how pale his right was or how the muscle was nowhere near as developed as his left. If his _entire_ body had been that way, he honestly couldn't say what he would have been feeling. Relief? Horror? An emotion somewhere in between?

Al was neither, at least as far as Ed could tell by looking at him. Not once since he'd dragged his brother from the gateway had the latter appeared the least bit surprised or taken aback that he had returned in one piece; never had his voice betrayed so much as an ounce of dread at the long recovery that awaited him now that he had some bones to put meat on. In the wake of their battle with Father, all he radiated was…gladness. _Contentment_. As if he'd never doubted for a second that this would be the outcome of all their hard work.

 _That makes one of us._

"Brother? How come you're just standing there?"

Shaking himself from his musings, Ed pasted a grin on his face to quell the vague concern that suddenly darkened Al's expression. Apparently, he'd been hovering there a little longer than was probably considered normal.

"Just trying to decide whether we can fit the Major in here," he retorted lightly with a sardonic gesture towards his brother's visitors. "Pretty soon it'll be too cramped to move with all these muscle heads around."

With a snort of amusement, Jerso immediately shot back, "Not our fault this room's built for little guys."

"WHO'RE YOU CALLIN' A PIPSQUEAK?!"

For a fleeting instant, Ed half expected a pair of leather gauntlets to descend on his shoulders to keep him from flying at the snickering chimeras and clawing their eyes out, but that familiar sensation didn't materialize. There was absolutely nothing holding him back, nothing to stop him from storming over there and showing those two clowns that Edward Elric _had_ grown in the last few months, dammit!

Nothing but the grin on his brother's face, that was. Nothing but the solid laugh that issued from behind his teeth rather than a metal faceplate, the sound no longer echoing or tinny and all the more glorious for it.

Well, maybe Ed could cut them some slack. _Just_ this once.

If they made a comment like that again, however, they were _so_ going to be feeling it all the way into next month.

"Sure, sure. Keep laughing and see where it gets ya," Ed groused with his shoulders pulled up to his ears as he marched over to the empty bed where a set of clean, hospital-issued clothing was waiting for him. Someday, he wondered if they would ever get around to redesigning these things to be more comfortable. He doubted it, but a guy could hope.

Fighting to suppress his residual chuckles, Al ignored his obvious disdain for both the outfit and their guests to offer a proverbial olive branch. "Sorry, Brother, but maybe now you'll grow more since you don't have to worry about taking care of both of us!"

…Olive branch. Punch to the gut. They were splitting hairs, really.

As far as his brother had to know, though, it was a bolstering sentiment. They'd speculated that Ed's admittedly— _grudgingly_ —stunted growth had been connected to a combination of his auto-mail and the link between his and Al's bodies. They'd never been able to gather any solid evidence, but it was the only thing that made sense; it also explained why Al had been trapped in the gateway all this time rather than going wherever it was that dead people wandered off to. Eating, drinking, sleeping—everything Ed had done translated to another day before Al's body imitated Barry's. At least, that was the idea.

Now, there was no reason for the nutrients Ed ingested to be filtered through the gateway to his brother instead. By all accounts, he could shoot upwards overnight and make up for all that lost time! Well, in theory, anyway. The mental image of himself towering over everyone else in the vicinity by morning (somehow including Major Armstrong, which was _definitely_ never going to happen no matter how tall he grew—Ed was optimistic, not stupid) evaporated when he remembered that biology didn't work like that. Yeah, he'd catch up, but he'd just have to be patient and wait for it. Fortunately, no one in the room could hear the whine of impatience that rattled through his skull without passing his lips.

Actually, on second thought, maybe Al could. That little smirk on his face was _far_ too knowing to believe otherwise.

 _Damn Elric telepathy._

Ling could deny that it existed all he wanted, but there were some mysteries in this world that were simply too powerful to refute.

Armstrong's inability to go ten minutes without losing his shirt, for example, had to fall somewhere towards the top of Ed's list. Sadly, this time he brought it on himself.

"Yeah, looks like you'll have to do that yourself now." Grinning wickedly, Ed pointed at the golden mane that Al was keeping tucked behind his ears and laughed, "You should probably start with that hair. It's gonna be longer than Winry's soon!"

Frowning, Al deadpanned, "You wear your hair long too, Brother."

"Not _that_ long!"

"When's the last time you checked?"

Ed opened his mouth to argue only to realize that Al had a point there. It _had_ been a while since he'd really taken a break to inventory anything besides the arm that the Truth had graciously returned to him in exchange for Al's sacrifice. In fact, he couldn't even remember when he'd showered last…

No one else needed to know that. Not that he wouldn't silently make that one of his first priorities, but still. Talk about embarrassing regardless of the desperate straits they'd been in.

Given that all Ed could manage in reply was some incoherent sputtering and angry fist-shaking, Al eventually frowned at the dry, brittle strands of hair that had to be scratching uncomfortably against his arm and murmured, "I probably _should_ get it cut, though."

The minute crease between his eyebrows was so reminiscent of when they were kids that the acrid taste of verbal defeat didn't last very long, and a soft smile tugged at the corners of Ed's lips. "Sure. As soon as the doctors say you're good to go, we'll find the best barber in Central to do the job."

"Yeah!" Al agreed, his eyes lighting up in excitement that Ed knew meant he would be hearing his brother prattle on about how he should get his hair styled for at least the next few days. Honestly, the idea didn't bother him as much as it would have when they were younger.

Little did he know that he wouldn't have to wait _that_ long.

"That will be quite unnecessary," remarked Armstrong with a frighteningly telling flex of his muscles.

Exchanging a glance of mingled apprehension and curiosity with Al, Ed almost decided not to ask, "Uh…why's that?"

With a flourish of completely unsurprising flamboyance, Armstrong produced a pair of shears that he could have purchased today for as shiny and sharp as they appeared from across the room. Where he'd pulled them from, Ed had no clue—nor did he want to find out. That was generally the best course of action where the Major was concerned.

"I would consider it a privilege to do the honors of trimming young Alphonse's hair for him."

"No, no!" Al raised his hands in a mollifying gesture that was totally not going to have the desired impact on their typically tone-deaf pseudo-guardian. "It's okay, I can wait!"

"Nonsense! Any discomfort you are feeling should be eradicated immediately!"

Each syllable had the seams of his shirt stretching tauter than the last until Ed wasn't sure how the thread refrained from screaming in agony at the inevitable. That did it. Time to step in before he did something drastic.

…Aw, who was he kidding? This guy _always_ did something drastic.

Even so, he had to try.

"Seriously, Major, it's no big deal!"

Nodding vigorously, Al added, "Yeah, you've done enough work for one day!"

"Maybe some other time!"

"R-Right, some other time!"

"Perish the thought, Elric brothers. Hairdressing is an art that has been passed down through the Armstrong line for generations!"

"Oh, no…"

"GYAH, WOULD YOU PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON?!"

* * *

"Y'know, Al, I've gotta say. The Major didn't do too bad."

Al hummed in agreement, gazing appraisingly into the handheld mirror that Ed brought him from the small bathroom attached to their temporary lodgings. "I know. I guess we shouldn't be surprised, though. He _did_ say his family has been doing this fo—"

"Generations—yeah, yeah, I know."

Ed didn't have the heart to tell Al that he was pretty sure Armstrong chalked just about anything up to his lofty bloodline, although it was unlikely that his little brother hadn't already come to the same conclusion himself. They'd both known him for equal lengths of time; they had both spent countless hours listening to him tell them stories about his history and all the various talents that it allegedly afforded him now that he was older and built like a tank. It would be impossible to miss the fact that hardly any of that stuff could _truly_ be passed down from parent to child, let alone for so many generations that the Major never could give them a ballpark number. Well, impossible for anyone who wasn't a complete idiot, which had never been a trait that he would have associated with Al. At times he could certainly act like one, sure, but in all honesty? His brother was probably the smartest person he knew. He had to be just as aware of the reality that cutting hair wasn't an inheritable skill as Ed was. It was simply that he was too damn nice to vocalize it.

That or he was trying to distract himself from the idea that a guy with approximately _one_ lock of hair left on his otherwise bald pate had been given carte blanche with Al's styling mere minutes ago. Yeah, that was definitely enough to have someone in denial.

Besides that, there was another reason that Ed was struggling to ignore despite how it seemed to be knocking ever more insistently at the door of his consciousness the longer he was left alone with Al in their now silent hospital room. As soon as he had finished his self-appointed task, the Major had bowed out with some excuse about reporting to whoever was in charge. His eyes had gotten that suspicious, shifty look to them when he'd said it, so Ed had no doubt that he had been blowing smoke in order to hide his true motives. If the Major didn't want them to know, then Ed had a feeling it was undoubtedly something he wasn't going to like. Given that he'd had more than enough of that for one week, he'd decided it wasn't worth sticking his nose into Armstrong's business and had instead waved a hand in farewell as the Major had departed with both of their other guests in tow. Jerso and Zampano had promised that they would stop back in the following day once they'd had a chance to get cleaned up and go help with some of the cleanup that was still going on outside the window, but Ed wasn't fooled by _them_ either. For some reason, everyone seemed to think that he and Al needed to be alone. For some reason, they appeared to believe an awkward conversation was coming on.

And dammit, if they weren't right.

"Brother… How come the doctors didn't take the rest of your auto-mail out?"

Al's hesitant question was innocent enough, yet it sent a thrill of something vaguely resembling grief shooting through Ed's chest nevertheless. It wasn't _sadness_ , per se: he'd wanted that damn metal arm gone ever since he'd gotten it in the first place. It had always been a temporary thing; even though he hadn't known how at the time, he'd been adamant that they were going to get their original bodies back. Winry's masterpiece was never going to stay with him forever—he'd promised himself that much.

Regardless, there was something playing at his heartstrings that just _ached_ at the thought of removing that reminder of all that they'd gone through in order to get to this point. Sure, his auto-mail leg remained and would for the rest of his life. There would be no escaping the telltale clank and rattle of metal when he moved, not entirely. It was the cross that he would forever bear because of their foray into God's territory. After all, metal wings couldn't melt. But his arm had become just as much a part of him as his leg, and he would be lying if he said he was ready to see the last bits of it go so quickly.

There was also the fact that Winry would kill him if he ever let anyone besides her mess with his auto-mail. He'd literally survived an apocalypse a few hours ago—he wasn't about to let Winry accomplish what Father hadn't.

"Huh? Oh. They're pretty busy with everything going on, so I figured I'd just wait and let Winry do the honors. She'd probably explode if I let someone else touch it, anyway."

"Yeah, but…doesn't it hurt?"

"Eh, not really. I'm used to it, remember?"

His brother didn't ask whether he meant that he was used to the screws piercing skin and muscle or pain in general. He knew better than most that it was both.

The thought didn't do much to dispel the heaviness in the air between them, though, and they descended into a silence that Ed couldn't quite convince himself wasn't as uncomfortable as it felt. It was hard to tell if it was only him or if Al caught it too. Years in that big metal body of his had robbed Ed of the opportunity to read his brother's facial expressions, which had been frustrating to say the least, and even though he'd been divested of the shell that had kept him tethered to this side of the gateway, Al may as well have been made of steel for all that Ed could glean from his visage while he dumped his ratty outfit on the floor and slipped into the fresh clothes that had been left for him. That in itself was too weird for words. When they were kids, Al hadn't been able to hide a thing from him; everything was written all over his face, from his disappointment when he couldn't perform alchemy as naturally as Ed to the smug satisfaction he'd radiated whenever their mom insisted that it was time to measure how much they'd grown. (Where Ed's height had practically crawled at a snail's pace, Al's seemed bound and determined to do for his body what his alchemical skill hadn't achieved as quickly as Ed's. It was hell to remind himself that in terms of equivalent exchange, that was a pretty decent one.) Even when he was trapped in that armor, Al hadn't been a completely closed book: the tenor of his voice had given away his mood without fail.

With his mouth closed and his face imitating his now needless helmet, however, Ed was getting nothing. Lucky for him, Al wasn't one to keep him guessing. Never had been, never would be. It was a blessing _and_ a curse.

"I'm sorry, Ed."

 _…_ _Wha…?_

Butt halfway to the mattress that had been beckoning to him with increasing urgency ever since he'd walked in, Ed frowned at Al uncomprehendingly. "Uh…what for?"

Al's eyes averted to the mirror again, and a long moment passed where the silence pressed in on them like it was waiting for the answer as well. Unable to meet Ed's gaze, Al eventually elaborated for both of them, "It's my fault you lost your alchemy."

"No," Ed replied immediately, blinking in confusion. "It's not."

Rather than assuage Al's apparent guilt, his response seemed to have the _opposite_ effect. Because nothing in their lives could ever be easy, of course.

"It is! You didn't have anything _else_ to offer!"

"Sure, I did!"

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, Al's eyes drifted to his as he skeptically demanded, "Like what?"

"I… Well, uh…"

"See?"

"Hey, just wait a minute, would ya?!" sputtered Ed indignantly.

Al actually had the nerve to _snort_. "You're stalling, Brother."

"Am not!"

"Are _too_!"

…Okay, so maybe he was, albeit not for the same reasons that Al was imagining. Was it so wrong of Ed to want to shield him from the unfortunate truth, though? Wasn't it his job as the big brother around here to brush a few things under the proverbial rug so that Al wouldn't have to bear the burden of merely knowing about them? The _real_ answer wasn't exactly something that would make anyone feel all warm and fuzzy inside, after all. As a matter of fact, Ed had hoped to never bring it up ever again; the memory of it alone had him internally cringing, and he didn't even _care_ all that much. He _didn't_. Too many years had passed for him to really feel anything where that…that _bastard_ was concerned.

But Al…

For reasons Ed would never be able to fathom, Al still loved the guy. He called him _Dad_ and pretended that it didn't hurt like hell to count how many years it had been since they'd lived together in Resembool. That made it a hell of a lot harder to answer his question, although when his only other option was to let his little brother think that Ed's sacrifice was all _his_ fault? Well, perhaps it was better that he realized the same thing Ed had a few hours ago.

Alchemy really _wasn't_ everything.

So, with a sigh of irritation at both himself and the situation, Ed collapsed onto his bed and stared at the ceiling to avoid having to see the way Al's face would inevitably fall when he murmured, "Hohenheim wanted me to use him to do the transmutation."

A pause, then, "He _what_?!"

"Yeah. It's strange, right?" he chuckled humorlessly, covering his eyes with his forearm. "The bastard's been missing almost our whole lives, then all of a sudden he's offering to be a human sacrifice for us. Pretty crazy stuff."

"Not really," Al retorted after a brief pause, quiet and thoughtful. "I know you hate him, but just because he wasn't there doesn't mean he didn't love us, Brother."

Ed knew that. Of course he knew that. It was possibly the sole thing he'd learned about Hohenheim since this whole mess had started, with the exception of his insane origins. Even so…

"Got a funny way of showing it," he muttered stubbornly. Ed hadn't entirely admitted to himself that _maybe_ he hadn't been _completely_ correct in his assumptions about their dad. Like hell was he going to tell Al that and have to spend the next few hours looking at a smug grin in response.

Fortunately, their Elric telepathy seemed to work, and Al let that line of thinking go to muse, "He would've given his _life_ …just so I could get my body back?"

"So you could come back at all. It wasn't like your soul was still on this side of the gateway either," Ed confirmed.

"But you didn't use him."

There was a question there, and it wasn't one Ed particularly liked. Perhaps he was imagining the implication belying Al's seemingly harmless statement, but it nevertheless had him launching upright in a towering temper despite his exhaustion.

"What're you talking about?! _Of course I didn't!_ I would've used myself first!"

Al nodded sadly. "I know you would've, Brother. And you did."

That certainly knocked the wind out of his sails. The heat of Ed's anger dissipated faster than he could latch onto it, making it impossible to use as a shield like he desperately wished to. An empty, gaping hole opened in its wake and left him more vulnerable than he felt comfortable with, even if Al _was_ the person he trusted most in this world to see him that way.

Shifting uncomfortably under his brother's understanding— _far_ too understanding—gaze, Ed hesitated a moment before muttering to the floor, "I made you a promise that I'd do whatever it took to get your body back, Al. My own life, the rest of my body, everything I knew about alchemy— _whatever it took_. But I… I couldn't…" He paused again, dragging in a deep breath before blurting out through gritted teeth, "I couldn't do that to someone else. Not like _him_."

Al didn't ask who he was talking about. He didn't need to.

"Brother, you could _never_ be like him."

A bitter smile twisted his lips. Leave it to his brother to refuse to believe the worst of him regardless of whether or not he'd earned the benefit of the doubt.

"I don't know, Al. All that time we spent trying to make a philosopher's stone…"

"That was before we knew the cost."

"What about after?" rejoined Ed, groaning at the memory of their past stupidity—or maybe just recklessness. "What about Hughes? The colonel? So many people got hurt because of _us_."

"Because of _him_ ," Al amended hotly.

When Ed mustered the courage to peer up at him, it was to see that there wasn't a shred of uncertainty in his brother's expressive eyes. The fire within them didn't waver for an instant, the same unquenchable flame that had glowed through metal eye holes for years burning brighter than ever. No, what he found glaring back at him was hard as steel and a hundred times more durable: _this_ was Al's unshakable, irrevocable faith in the big brother who hadn't done a damn thing to deserve it.

On that, however, they would never agree, and Ed could do little more than listen miserably as Al continued, "None of that was your fault, Brother. Neither of us could have guessed what he was planning, and you did everything you could to keep everyone safe. You could _never_ be like he was."

"Both of us wanted the same thing, though," Ed argued weakly, though he could tell from Al's posture alone that he wasn't about to win this fight. _Sheesh, I thought the whole point was that he's_ not _made of metal anymore._

That was the plan, anyway. At the moment, Al may as well have been back in that armor; it certainly seemed the more appropriate vessel for his determination than the meager frame he'd re-inhabited.

" _He_ wanted to be a god," his brother reasoned with the force of Winry's wrench when she threw it at top speed. "You just wanted to get our bodies back. You wanted to _help_ people. That's what alchemists _do_."

Ed couldn't restrain the derisive snort that bubbled up from his chest, not even to spare Al's feelings on what would probably be a touchy subject for the rest of their lives. " _Former_ alchemist."

Shaking his head in pigheaded denial, Al countered, "You're still an alchemist, Brother."

"Oh, yeah? How many alchemists d'you know of who can't actually _do_ alchemy?"

"That doesn't matter. It's not about what you can make. You've got all the important stuff up here."

Al tapped his temple lightly, and Ed couldn't help but smile at that. He made it sound so easy, as if being an alchemist were as simple as understanding the theory. If that were the case, though, then anyone could be an alchemist. All they'd have to do was read a couple of books, memorize a few arrays, and voila! Instant expert. The title itself would lose all meaning; the pocket watch that winked at him from his bedside table in the waning twilight would become commonplace. Sure, most people still wouldn't be able to fix their own stuff or make anything new, but they'd know _how_ if they really wanted to pursue it. Ideally—the way Al was attempting to spin it for Ed's sake—that was all it would take to be an alchemist.

The reality, however, was vastly different. They'd both lived that particular truth, enough for Ed to have a wealth of evidence at his beck and call. If he wanted to, he could bury Al under countless arguments and examples; he could defend his position as _former_ Fullmetal and leave no room for doubt. It wouldn't be difficult. Actually, it would be the easiest debate he'd ever won.

But there was a time and place for everything, and this indisputably was neither.

It wasn't often that Ed backed down from a fight, not even with his baby brother, but he couldn't locate the energy to battle it out over what he knew Al already comprehended: alchemy was more than a merely theoretical science. It took skill, which they'd been practicing since they were old enough to read the overlong words in their father's books. Nah, ignorance wasn't what drove Al to preach the unthinkable, so an argument was pointless. He was just trying to make Ed feel better even though he obviously had no intention of believing that it wasn't his fault that Ed had sacrificed his honed abilities. What kind of jerk would throw that in his face purely to prove themselves _right_?

…Well, _Ed_ typically would, but not today. They'd dealt with plenty already, and exhaustion clung to him like the metal in his shoulder and the blood on his hands. Plus, they'd saved the whole country, dammit! This was supposed to be a _happy_ evening, a victory celebration for themselves and everyone else that had made it through that hell in one piece. Fighting his brother on something as stupid as the uncomfortably glaring similarities between himself, his father, and their shared doppelgänger could wait. The looming decisions they'd have to make about what would happen next could wait. It wasn't like they wouldn't be there in the morning along with every other problem that never seemed to take a hint and get lost.

So, flopping sideways on his pillow and propping his head up with a grin he didn't really feel, Ed conceded, "Sure, Al. Whatever you say."


	3. Fleeting Figments

Chapter Three: Fleeting Figments

 _Dreaming had to be the actual worst thing on the planet. That, at least, was Ed's opinion on the matter. First off, what was even the point? Sleep was supposed to be when your body and mind shut down, processed everything that had happened over the course of the day, and let you take a damn break from the world. Invasive images defeated the purpose, and it was often the case that he woke up more exhausted than when he went to bed on the frequent occasions where his brain refused to quit hounding him for a few hours._

 _Besides, dreams never held any fun for him anyway._

 _To an extent, he recognized that that was his fault. People had accused him in the past of being too smart for his own good, and he supposed they were correct when it came to dreams. They were usually just so impossible to believe that he saw right through them and ended up irritated rather than entertained. The sky wasn't purple, people didn't randomly walk on their hands instead of their feet, and there was no way to get from Resembool to Central without remembering the journey. (Not even sleeping through the ride erased the aches and pains that inevitably accompanied uncomfortable train benches. Ed knew that better than anybody.) Where other people claimed that they enjoyed their dreams, including the ones that they couldn't remember beyond residual sensations, Ed couldn't say that he'd had one in recent memory that couldn't be classified as either unbearably obnoxious or an outright nightmare. Strangely enough, the latter didn't bother him nearly as much as the random visions most people looked forward to when they shut their eyes. Or maybe it wasn't so unexpected—he was an alchemist, after all. Dreams were the opposite of what any good scientist wanted in their life. They were frustratingly unpredictable with little to no quantifiable benefit; their sole advantage was that they were simple to identify as a result of that volatility._

 _Nightmares, on the other hand, were so predictable that it was almost comforting. Sure, it pissed him off that he couldn't always tell them apart from a mere memory, especially when they tended to start out that way, and he still woke up in a cold sweat with the covers thrown around like he'd been fighting a battle instead of sleeping. Even so, the odd shifts of reality made a weird sort of sense when his recollections turned dark and strayed from what he knew to be the truth. Ed could easily qualify the seeming leaps of logic as his subconscious connecting various events of a similar nature and throwing them at him all at once. Not the most pleasant experience, and it didn't keep him from wanting to beat his brains out with his own auto-mail, yet the fact remained that if he was given a choice between some fantastical dream he couldn't quite follow and a predictable nightmare, he'd choose the latter every time._

 _Which was why he huffed in frustration as he strode down the familiar avenues of Central with Alphonse at his side, wondering which it was going to be tonight._

 _It wasn't difficult to determine that he wasn't awake. If he were, then Al's footsteps wouldn't have crashed so loudly against the pavement. He also wouldn't have been tall enough to blot out the light overhead and throw Ed into perpetual shade. Unfortunately, that was exactly what was happening, because Al didn't look the same as he had when Ed had finally succumbed to his exhaustion in the hospital. No, he was in his armor again, strolling along as though it were completely normal and he hadn't gotten his body back mere hours earlier. As though he hadn't just eaten a meager dinner of broth and crackers with a grin that could put the sun to shame with its brilliance._

 _As though he hadn't yawned widely before bashfully asking, "Brother, is it weird that I'm actually_ excited _to go to bed?"_

 _As though Ed hadn't laughed loudly and joked, "No weirder than you always are."_

 _Their banter echoed in his ears, reminding him that his surroundings weren't real but lacking any clues as to whether he was about to be woken with a jolt of fright or simply wish he was. This particular dream wasn't really doing him any favors when it came to guessing what was in store. It was an all too familiar scene that he had relived with Al over and over: walking through Central in search of their next step towards finding the philosopher's stone. Did that make it a memory? Did he just have to keep going to discover what it was his brain had planned for him? Or was the world about to turn upside down and send him rolling down the street in a barrel so that Winry could beat him over the head with her wrench while yelling that it was his punishment for how many times he'd abused her masterpieces?_

 _…_ _On second thought, that wasn't really far-fetched enough to be dream material. If anything, it was the stuff of his worst nightmares._

 _His insanely detail-oriented auto-mail mechanic aside, Ed glared around with shifty eyes and waited for something to change. It always did, whether the craziness took over or his memories merely took a turn for the worse, and he wasn't disappointed in this instance either._

 _It was no surprise when people started panicking. The mindless fleeing didn't faze him; not even the phantom Al beside him missed a step when a woman holding a baby tightly in her arms darted past them in the opposite direction. However, Ed thought that had less to do with his brother's uncanny ability to remain collected in nearly any trial than the fact that he hadn't said a word since Ed had grown aware that he was dreaming._ That _wasn't a good sign. Looking back on it, Ed couldn't remember a time when the two of them weren't chatting about something while they made their way from one place to another. Jokes, theories, complaints about the colonel (all right, that was more Ed than Al, but the latter had been a good audience to vent his frustrations with)—they'd never run out of stuff to discuss._

 _In the trap his own mind had laid out for him, it was as though Al really had become nothing more than an animated suit of armor. He moved; he kept up with Ed's rapid strides. But he didn't speak. He didn't look around. His helmet didn't incline towards the sky when the sun was unexpectedly eclipsed by the moon and Central went dark around them._

…Wait a sec…

 _Ed groaned aloud as realization struck, rolling his eyes at the tableau that he had been too far underground to witness for himself. If he had to guess, though, this was how he figured it would have looked from the outside. There was just enough dark ambiance to blur the lines between hellish reality and terrifying imagination until he wasn't sure which one held sway. Had the towering buildings really seemed to stretch even taller? Had they glowed an eerie red in the deflected light of the sun? Had shadows sprung from alleys and gutters like monsters, their claws reaching for whoever they could drag into the depths with them?_

 _Probably not. Seriously, dreams were just weird like that._

 _Or…maybe a nightmare. The jury was still out on that one._

 _Either way, what hadn't begun with memories was slowly devolving into exactly that. Ed's view of the eclipse didn't last long before the void overtook them both, casting them into darkness so complete that he couldn't see his hands in front of his face. (The flesh_ and _auto-mail ones, because as with the vision of Al in his armor, Ed's mind apparently wasn't ready to let go of his metal appendages yet.)_

 _He wasn't falling. Not really. There was no ground beneath him, but his stomach wasn't hopping up and down to high-five his lungs the way it would have been if he'd taken a tumble. In a sense, it felt a little like soaring through the portal again, a sensation that he had thought would be forever out of reach now. Silly him—he'd forgotten all about his dreams and nightmares._

Looks like I'm not gonna get away from the Truth that easy _, he mused in dark amusement. It wouldn't be the real thing, of course, but it figured that the little creep wouldn't cease to exist in the corners of his mind where he was reluctant to tread. Ed was never that lucky._

 _Nor was that about to change, apparently. As suddenly as he had been engulfed in shadow, it dissipated to deposit him in a place that had his intestines knotting themselves up._

 _It was still so unthinkable that Father's little den of genocide or whatever he wanted to call it had been underneath Central—underneath Central_ Command _, of all places—from the start. How many times had Ed stomped through the building on his way to see Mustang or Hughes without a second thought as to what lay far below him, festering and plotting and hating each and every one of them? The forgotten detritus of urban development wasted away down here; ancient, antiquated plumbing that had long since been replaced had been alchemically reshaped to forge a throne that would ultimately never see the light of day. If Ed had it his way—and if he still had alchemy at his disposal—he would have torn the whole thing apart and erased any evidence that it had ever existed. He would have melted down the seat of alleged power that Father had created for himself, transmuted it into an enormous wrecking ball, and proceeded to demolish every last bit of the terrible history Amestris had hidden away beneath its streets and villages._

 _But he didn't have his alchemy anymore. The Fullmetal Alchemist was powerless, and his brain wasn't even creative enough to come up with a better place to make him wait out the hours until he woke up._

Figures. I'd rather dream of milk.

 _At least that would be an enemy that he_ knew _. While Hohenheim had seemed intimately aware of everything that Father wanted out of his scheme, Ed remained in the dark on a few elements. Maybe all the excitement just hadn't dwindled down enough for him to think it through; perhaps he would never decipher what had made a homunculus decide that_ humans _were the real scourge. Regardless, Ed preferred to believe that the worst was behind them now._

 _Not standing in front of him in the shape of a small boy with a super creepy grin on his face that didn't quite belong to him._

 _"_ _So," Selim Bradley sneered by way of greeting, "you've finally arrived, Fullmetal Alchemist."_

 _Ed bit back the retort he'd shot at Al earlier, instead clapping his hands together and letting the familiar electricity that was alchemy flow through him as he transformed Winry's auto-mail into his trademark weapon. This was a dream, right? In his dreams, he could still be Fullmetal. In his dreams, he could use alchemy all he wanted. It didn't change the fact that in the real world, he was just as ordinary as anyone else now, but it made the transition a bit easier to stomach._

 _"_ _Yeah, yeah. Let's just get this over with, huh? I've got places to be," he deadpanned in response, his heart set on escaping this nightmare as soon as possible so that he could get a couple more hours of sleep before Al woke up. Unfortunately, Selim—no,_ Pride _—didn't seem too keen on accommodating him._

 _"_ _I'm afraid you'll have to cancel your plans."_

 _"_ _Oh, really? And why's that?"_

 _His grin widened almost grotesquely. "It will be difficult to leave when your body is mine."_

 _Ah. Right. That was a thing that had happened._

Sure are pulling out all the stops, y'know that?

 _Ed couldn't help but inwardly grumble at his mind's seeming lack of originality. It couldn't do better than a rehash of their showdown? Seriously? It must have been a testament to how tired he truly was that his brain wasn't even exerting the effort to torment him properly. A real nightmare would have combined a bunch of awful scenarios until he was ready to break from the strain of it. A real nightmare would have meshed a few memories together, tossed a few of the people he loved into harm's way—that sort of thing. Hell, he wouldn't put it past his obnoxiously efficient mind to get his mom down here somehow. Maybe even as a homunculus? Now_ that _was a nightmare worth shuddering over._

 _This? Yeah, this was old news._

 _But hey, it was his dream. He could at least make it exciting so this wouldn't be a complete waste of time._

 _So, lowering himself in preparation to attack, Ed bellowed, "You want it? Well, I'm not gonna make it easy for ya!"_

 _He didn't wait for Pride's manic chuckle. He didn't stop to hear whatever it was that the little bastard had to say. Odds were that it was just some nonsense to psyche him out or make him think twice about his own skills. Much as he hated to admit it, that might have worked if he were awake. There was no denying (in his head, anyway) that he was feeling a bit uneasy about the whole not-being-able-to-do-alchemy-anymore thing. It had been part of his identity for so long that it was an enormous factor in how he defined himself. It wasn't all he had going for him, of course; if it was, he would have had a harder time letting go of it, although his concern for Al's well-being would have won out regardless. That didn't assuage the traitorous yearning deep down inside, the gaping hole that whispered of what used to be there even though he knew that it never would be again. It wasn't hopelessness, though. It wasn't helplessness. He could still fight; Teacher had taught him how to defend himself with_ and _without alchemy. His tempered skills, however, gave him the upper hand in battle. They allowed him to manipulate his environment into exactly what he needed it to be in order to win. Without that, his victories were no longer assured. All he could do now was cross his fingers and hope that his torturous training would be enough._

 _In his dreams, though, that was another story. Nothing Pride said could dent his utter surety that he would be the victor here, not when familiar blue light emanated from his hands as he clapped them together and slammed them into the ground, hardly stopping as the concrete erupted into projectiles that flew straight at his adversary. Nothing the homunculus threw at him could steal the burst of adrenaline that had his heart flying nearly as high as he was when he leapt atop a rapidly rising pillar of his own making and lunged for his opponent. Selim's words slipped past him as fluidly as the extensions of his power did, stabbing and slicing at him in a futile attempt to stop his momentum, all teeth and eyes and monstrous intent._

 _And Ed dodged—_

 _Ed swung—_

 _Then metal impaled soft flesh and inhuman shadow alike._

 _Only it wasn't Ed's._

 _A shockwave of equal parts surprise and something he couldn't identify seemed to freeze him in place, and Ed barely had a chance to contort himself into a roll to soften his landing in his preoccupation. There was no reason for him to bolt upright and whirl on his heel like he did: Pride wasn't in any condition to take advantage of his dropped guard. Instead, his eyes were devoid of any emotion whatsoever, including the agonizing hunger that had practically oozed from his pores at the prospect of appropriating another human host._

 _For a moment, Ed thought he was dead on his feet, a pipe from the surrounding infrastructure jutting through his solar plexus to hold him upright. If that was the case, however, he didn't have an opportunity to get close enough to find out. The notion had hardly occurred to him before Pride wavered like a mirage in the desert and melted into the steel._

 _No, not melted—_ deconstructed _. It was so plain to see that Ed nearly scoffed at the irony of the situation. After all, the most novice alchemist could figure it out. Some particles of what had once been a human shell, a mortal vessel for a monster, fused with the metal…_

Iron, five grams. Carbon, twenty kilograms.

 _…_ _while others sank into the shattered concrete beneath their feet, smoothing over it until the evidence of Ed's attacks were swept away entirely._

Water, thirty-five liters. Lime, one point five kilograms. Silicon, three grams.

 _And the rest… Well, he would rather not have known what happened to the rest._

 _But in spite of this being_ his _dream, that was out of his hands. Ed couldn't even close his eyes against the visceral rage and despair that roiled in his stomach at the image of Father looming over him, his expression dispassionate and unaffected as he absorbed what remained of his so-called child._

 _That was it. That was the instant, the_ shift _that drove him further over the line between dream and nightmare than he had anticipated. Without meaning to, Ed's mind juxtaposed the wannabe god before him with the last memory he had of his father as a child. Light played around their identical silhouettes, drenching both in a golden glow that contrasted sharply with the long shadow that stretched over Ed and chilled him to the bone. Now or then, it didn't matter. The sight still brought him up short, and for the briefest fraction of a second, he forgot that this wasn't real. He forgot that he was somewhere else entirely—_

 _"_ _Welcome back, Edward. How good it is to see you again."_

 _—_ _in a hospital with his brother sleeping only a few feet from him—_

 _"_ _I didn't expect you so soon. You'll have to forgive my lack of preparation."_

 _—_ _Armstrong hovering somewhere in the building like the world's strangest, most emotional watchdog—_

 _"_ _But then, I suppose one can never fully prepare themselves for the rise to greatness."_

 _—_ _mere hours after he'd beaten this bastard to a pulp with his bare hands…_

 _…_ _Hadn't he?_

 _Father's strides were painstakingly measured as he approached, his expression calm but a glimmer of avarice sparkling in his eyes that belied his otherwise unshakable façade. A voice in the back of Ed's head screamed at him to do something, to not just_ stand there _—get away, you idiot—do something—do_ anything _—_

 _But he couldn't. Because this was real. Because the voice that mattered was the smaller one, the one that sounded the same as when he'd cried out for his mother because Al was gone and this wasn't what they wanted and it wasn't supposed to be like this and he had to bring his little brother back they were all each other had left it couldn't end this way—_

 _The voice that mattered was the one that didn't yell or shout in anger, but cried and begged and pleaded with the Truth to give him back his little brother._

 _The voice that mattered somehow drowned out the one that made sense, and Ed was rooted to the spot as solidly as if Father had transmuted his boots into lead weights._

 _When the homunculus reached forward to wrap an enormous yet incongruously gentle hand around his throat, it was real._

 _When he lifted Ed off his feet as though he weighed nothing, it was real._

 _When he drew him in close and examined his face with unerring scrutiny, it was_ real _._

 _And Ed could do nothing but stare back at him, all the fight he had left fleeing like he should have._

 _"_ _How remarkably ironic that it would be you who furnished me with the perfect philosopher's stone," Father murmured. Something similar to a smile danced across his lips, except it was far too cold and calculating to qualify. "I always thought it would be Hohenheim. His was the blood that sustained me, yet his son's will make me a god. Yes… Ironic indeed."_

 _The inferno that never failed to explode within him at the mere mention of that bastard's name could barely count as a spark, but it was enough to rouse Ed from his stupor. Baring his teeth, he ground out, "I won't let you do it!"_

 _If Father heard him, he didn't bother responding. Rather, he continued as though Ed hadn't spoken, "This is the day when all my hard work will finally bear fruit. It was the homunculi that built Amestris from the ground up, and now it is time to claim my reward."_

 _"_ _By callin' yourself a god?!" scoffed Edward. That, it seemed, was enough to draw Father's interest._

 _"_ _By finally achieving my goal," he amended in the slow, deliberate manner of a parent explaining something simple to a small child. Ed bristled at his patronizing tone, but that was nothing compared to the fury—and fear—that consumed him when Father added, "Or perhaps I should call it_ our _goal."_

 _Ed was vehemently shaking his head before he finished his sentence. "No! I'm not like you."_

 _Raising an eyebrow in bemusement, Father replied, "Of course, you are. I doubt that anyone would be able to tell the difference between you and I."_

 _The pressure around his neck tightened, and Ed closed his eyes against the wave of dizziness that washed over him even as he stubbornly argued, "You're wrong. I'm nothing like you—I'm not!"_

 _He wasn't. Al had said so. His brother… His brother had told him that…but when?_

 _Father's chuckle dispelled that train of thought before he had a chance to pursue it. Ed would have been annoyed if not for the shudder that ran up his spine._

 _"_ _Humans are such mundane creatures, and yet they aspire to the status of gods every day. They unceasingly seek power and wealth with which to dominate their fellow man. Most hunger for nothing more than control over another of their own kind and see them merely as slaves to use for their own purposes. Reaching the top of a brittle hierarchy doomed to fall engrosses them until they destroy themselves in the attempt. Alchemists are guiltier than most in that regard. Whether for their own benefit or that of the state, they aim to change the world, to reshape it in an image that they find more palatable." Huffing in disdain, Father shook him slightly and demanded, "But despite this, you claim to be_ different _? Foolish boy. What could possibly be so different about you when you've spent your entire life trying to wield the power of God?"_

 _Although his voice betrayed no anger, Father punctuated his accusation by flinging Ed from him with what Ed assumed was all the strength he had. It certainly felt that way when his back hit the distant wall, forcing a cry of pain from his lips as he slumped to the floor and didn't get up again. His legs wouldn't cooperate with him, not that that was very surprising. Why should they hold up someone like him, who was exactly what Father accused him of being?_

 _Ed had told Al as much, had told himself that he couldn't believe his brother's repeated assurances that there was a huge chasm separating Ed from the homunculus that had destroyed so many lives, and when push came to shove…Father was right. About everything. They_ were _the same: two misguided creatures who tried to play gods and ended up getting burned. They'd both flown too close to the sun, their wings melting as payment for their transgressions. Even when he had discovered the enormity of the threat they were facing, Ed hadn't abandoned his ambitions to get their bodies back. It remained his foremost priority—lives were on the line, yet getting his brother out of that armor came first. Putting his own body back together came first._

 _Hughes had died for it._

 _Buccaneer had died for it._

 _Fu had died for it._

 _Mustang had gone blind for it._

 _Teacher, Lieutenant Hawkeye, their father, and countless others had paid hefty prices for it. All so that Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, could flout the laws of equivalent exchange._

 _They_ were _the same._

 _So, he didn't try to save himself or look away as Father sauntered towards him, his appearance transformed from that of his absentee dad to a nearly identical copy of himself. He didn't fight it when those fingers once again closed around his windpipe and squeezed, this time with the intent to kill. He didn't worry about the darkness that encroached on his vision and sent him tumbling into the unknown with nothing but his guilt to keep him company._

 _Because if he was lucky, maybe his crimes weren't bad enough to keep them from burying whatever was left of him next to his mom. Then perhaps the phantom sensation of her fingers brushing tenderly through his hair as he faded into oblivion would make a little more sense._

* * *

Unlike most of his nightmares, Ed didn't jerk into wakefulness. It happened gradually, lacking the familiar disorientation of wondering what was real and what he was leaving behind in the world of his unspeakable insecurities. Then again, in the moments before the vivid images of Father's den faded into distant and irretrievable memory, he figured that wasn't too far off base. The whole thing hadn't exactly followed the typical route his nightmares tended to. In this instance, his brain had ignored its usual formula, sacrificing creativity for the opportunity to throw him for a loop. If it weren't for the absence of the emotional distance he could ordinarily rely on in situations like this, Ed would have appreciated it. Anything was better than the monotony of what he'd grown accustomed to, namely the repeat performances of his heretofore most severe mistake.

That, in any case, was what he'd always imagined. Now that he'd gotten his wish and his mind had shown him something different from the norm… Yeah, he was starting to rethink that. A bit of tedium might have been precisely what he'd needed tonight, what with all the other changes they'd undergone in a matter of a few hours.

And apparently they weren't done just yet.

It took a few seconds for Ed to realize that there was a gentle pressure atop his head that shouldn't have been there, that _hadn't_ been there in a hell of a lot longer than he cared to dwell on. So long, in fact, that he vaguely wondered if it wasn't merely a figment of his imagination. Stranger things had happened.

There was no fabricating that steady presence, however. There was no making up the way it stroked his cheek with subtle discomfort that nevertheless wasn't enough to overcome the _longing_ that seemed to reach towards him through the air itself. That and the weariness that hadn't been cured by whatever small measure of sleep he'd actually gotten was all that kept him from tensing up immediately, caution and instinct warring with a sensation he didn't want to think too hard about as someone brushed his hair out of his face and tucked it behind his ear. So, he vaguely registered, that hadn't been part of his dream after all…

His mother's presence undoubtedly was. The fingers that caressed his temple were too thick to be hers, not to mention that they were cold as ice against the sweat that must have broken out on his brow while he was asleep. It could have been Al, but the size was all wrong; he would have had to be in his armor to even come close. Besides, when Ed strained his ears, he could make out the sound of his brother's even breathing across the room.

Was… Was it a nurse? No, that was stupid. Everyone in the damn hospital knew he was fine and only kept there by the power of Armstrong's literal posturing. There was no way they were coming in during the night to check his temperature, and even if they were, their hand was a pretty far cry from where it would need to be in order to get that job done. Maybe it was the Major himself? The guy was a touchy-feely kind of person. It wouldn't be too unexpected for him to pop by for a visit and get up in Ed's personal space. But even that was a little off—Armstrong wouldn't know a gentle pat on the head from breaking your back. It was all a hug to him regardless.

 _Then, who…?_

Struggling to keep his breathing even despite every cell in his body telling him he needed to _run_ , Ed cracked one eye to peer blearily through his eyelashes. The light wasn't on, but whoever had joined them must have left the door open, because the clinical white fluorescent glow filtered in from the hallway to mute the darkness into a murky gray. That made it more difficult for him to distinguish the shadowy silhouette superimposed on the wall above him, though once it came into sharper focus, it was as though he'd been shackled to the bed. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't even _think_ beyond the blind terror of the recently returned from the land of nightmares.

How else was he supposed to react when Father was hovering over him like a malignant angel of death?

It was a nightmare made real, and for a second, Ed was positive that this was it. They'd believed that they took Father down, yet he had somehow survived and waited until Ed was helpless to have his revenge; he'd returned to make the philosopher's stone that he would have used Ed's soul for if Al hadn't blown that plan to hell. Any second now, the bastard would grow tired of toying with his hair (why he'd decided to do so at all boggled the mind) and wrap those thick fingers of his around Ed's throat. Then that would be the end. He would die in bed like most people wanted, only it would be so much worse than that: he'd be throttled while his brother slept on and the hospital staff went about their business, oblivious to his final breaths as they were stifled before they could leave his lungs. There would be no goodbyes, just agonizing loneliness when his body finally gave out on him. All Ed had to do was wait. All he had to do was _nothing_ , which was fairly simple given that the connection between his brain and the rest of his body appeared to have been severed by Father's mere presence. Even if it hadn't, what was he supposed to do when he had no alchemy to protect himself? It wasn't a simple matter of clapping his hands together and putting a wall through the guy's face anymore; Ed had no control over the elements to give him an edge against the kind of power that Father had at his disposal. Just like when he'd been pinned down in the courtyard, there was nothing he could do but wait and hope that he could preserve at least a bit of his dignity as he was gasping for breath around the unwelcome intrusion…

…that never came.

Seconds stretched into minutes without change. Ed held his breath. Those fingers kept pace.

And he belatedly realized that it wasn't Father leaning over him so much as _his_ father. It was probably the first time he'd actually been _relieved_ about that.

The unexpected reassurance that afforded him was short-lived. Before he had a chance to compose himself—before he was _ready_ , oddly enough—Hohenheim's lightly calloused thumb brushed tenderly over his cheek one final time, and then his hand vanished altogether. Try as he might to avoid reacting, Ed rolled over to watch him cross the room and slip out into the corridor without a word or a second glance. He was just…gone, like a shadow when morning's first light broke over the horizon. In the middle of the night, with nothing but his brother's quiet snores and the oppressively forced silence of the hospital to keep him company, Ed could almost convince himself that he hadn't been there at all.

Only he knew better. They'd played this game their whole lives. He'd spent years pretending that Hohenheim wasn't a part of their family; in his dreams, he could sometimes even forget that he'd been in the picture to begin with. Images of their mom haunted his memories and his nightmares, but it was so easy to interpret his father's absence as nonexistence. He simply had to push that bastard out of his mind and forget to remember him. How hard could that be when he was never here anyway?

That was then, though. Now, he was distressingly accustomed to Hohenheim popping up when they least expected him, much to his simultaneous surprise and chagrin. Reflecting on the way his mother had spent most of her adult life waiting for that jerk, it seemed almost cruel that they got to spend so much time with him recently. There were no promises between Ed and Hohenheim, though, nothing to tie them together. Hell, they hardly knew each other. The guy hadn't been around since he was a little kid, and as such, his knowledge was limited. His uncanny and obnoxious habit of practically reading Ed's mind notwithstanding, they were practically strangers.

So, why did it _hurt_ so much when the door shut and extinguished the light behind it? Why did a cold chill climb up his spine at the same time as an insatiable blaze erupted in his chest?

Without conscious thought, Ed was upright and racing towards the door on silent feet so as not to wake Al. Well, not entirely silent: his auto-mail tapped loudly against the tile floor in his haste, the sound deafening in the otherwise soundless room, but there was nothing he could do to dampen the noise. If he stopped to put on a sock or his boots, he would be too late…

It turned out that he nearly was. Hohenheim had been the worse for wear after their showdown with Father, yet that hadn't stopped him from booking it down the hallway with impressive speed. He was already pushing open the door to the staircase when Ed came careering around the corner, his breathing rapid and shallow for more reasons than mere exertion.

"Hey, Hohenheim!"

His dad paused with his hand on the steel knob. That was all the acknowledgement Ed received, however. Hohenheim didn't raise his head or turn, which did little for the short fuse that was already burning too close to the surface. Perhaps that was why he couldn't resist sneering, "Leaving already? Real one-trick pony, aren't'cha?"

The low blow may as well have been aimed at Al's armor for all the impact it had on his father, who didn't bother dignifying his anger with a response. Outwardly, he remained as calm and unaffected as ever. Ed _hated_ that about him more than anything else, even the fact that he'd left them. After everything he'd done, the least the bastard could do was have the grace to look ashamed.

 _He did earlier_ , the voice in his head that sounded like Al's reminded him, not that he paid it any mind. As far as he was concerned, his conscience could shove it. Hohenheim _should_ have been abashed at suggesting that Ed use him as a human sacrifice—that he behave no differently than the monster that had been their enemy.

No, for too many reasons to count, Ed couldn't bring himself to be _nice_ to Hohenheim. Fighting alongside them didn't erase years of abandonment without so much as a letter; helping them save Amestris didn't absolve him of the crimes he'd committed against his own family, a family that didn't even hold him accountable for it. Of that much, Ed was positive. Al had nothing but good things to say about their father. Sometimes, Ed wondered if he'd forgotten what the guy had done when his brain got scrambled by the Truth or if he'd simply been too young to remember—not like Ed, who recalled every tear his mother had shed when she thought they weren't looking. And speaking of their mom… He inwardly grimaced when he imagined what she would say if she could see how he treated Hohenheim. Knowing her, she would have reprimanded him for not being more understanding or ignoring the manners she'd taught them when they were kids. There was no way she would have blamed Hohenheim for what he'd done, not to mention what he _hadn't_.

That meant it was up to Ed. The ingrained sense of injustice that had etched itself into his very being wasn't going away anytime soon, regardless of how reluctantly grateful he was that Hohenheim had shown up when it truly mattered. Ed wasn't too proud to admit that they likely wouldn't have kicked Father's ass if he hadn't. Of course, he could also argue that the bearded bastard never would have existed if it weren't for Hohenheim, but Ed was a reasonable person. He could extend the benefit of the doubt every now and again. It wasn't for his own well-being, though, nor was he planning to offer their dad a reprieve from what he deserved. Rather, Ed attempted to maintain the wall that had separated him from Hohenheim for Al's sake. If he was going to be so adamant in his conviction that their dad was one of the good guys, then it was Ed's job as his big brother to protect him so that he wouldn't fall so hard when he was inevitably let down.

Because seriously, what _good guy_ would pop into their hospital room and then leave without so much as saying goodbye?

 _Again_?

The dim lighting in that end of the hallway reflected blindingly off Hohenheim's glasses so that Ed couldn't spy his eyes behind them, but his dad's posture made him think that perhaps he wasn't so immune to the verbal projectiles Ed had hurled his way after all. There was a tension in his shoulders that not even Father had inspired in their darkest moments, and his spine was so rigid that Ed would have wondered if he'd had it replaced with auto-mail under different circumstances. That being said, it really wasn't much of a surprise that he still refused to turn and meet Ed's gaze.

The coward.

It wasn't until Ed was about to lose his temper entirely that Hohenheim stiffly replied, "Forgive me. I fear that I have overstayed my welcome."

Snorting, Ed countered testily, "Not like you were here long enough for that."

"Perhaps not," he agreed. His stance, however, wasn't altered whatsoever by his capitulation. It increasingly set Ed on edge, although he couldn't put his finger on the problem. Frustration gnawed at him, stoking the fire in his gut instead of easing it.

"I'm pretty sure Al wouldn't mind you sticking around a little longer, y'know."

"Is that so." It wasn't a question.

 _Weird…_

"Well, yeah," Ed muttered, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at the floor as though it had personally affronted him rather than the deadbeat standing before him. "He'd probably be upset if you left."

The words felt unnatural on his tongue, yet Ed couldn't bring himself to say what he was really thinking: that it was a good thing he was getting lost because it would just hurt worse if they got used to him being nearby. The memory of a solemn pair of red eyes set deep in a metal helm stopped him. Who was it that had been there for Al when Ed was laid up, recovering from Kimblee's attempt on his life? Who was it that had imparted to his little brother the knowledge of the Promised Day that he had gathered?

Who was it that had made Al feel less alone when his older brother had been wandering around Amestris with a couple of chimeras and a homunculus, himself a fugitive from the military who couldn't settle in one place for long without fear of being discovered?

Hohenheim was a lot of things, some bad and others worse, but he'd done for Al what Ed hadn't been able to for months. That had to earn him a bit of credit, even if it made something in Ed's chest bitterly grind together when he silently admitted it.

There was a pregnant pause where Hohenheim didn't seem to know what to say, though that was only to be expected. It wasn't like he'd done the _dad_ thing for very long, so Ed could understand that it didn't exactly come naturally to him now. Ultimately, he kept it short, simple, and evasive: "You two have each other."

"So?"

His head tilted ever so slightly in Ed's direction when he echoed, "So?"

Ed loosed an impatient huff. "We've always had each other. That's what brothers _do_. But I'm not his father."

 _He needs you._

The words didn't pass his lips— _wouldn't_ when he absolutely refused to let them—yet the sentiment hovered between them like the elephant in the room that it was. Ed wasn't exactly gung-ho for having their old man stick around any longer than absolutely necessary, but… Well, he knew Al better than he knew himself. Unlike him, his little brother was soft. That wasn't to say he was weak, of course—far from it. He simply dealt in emotion the way Ed dealt in sarcasm. He wouldn't take as kindly to Hohenheim slipping off into the unknown again; he wouldn't recognize that it was for the best like Ed did. Despite the anger and vitriol that flowed through his veins at the mere thought of their dad much of the time, he wasn't stupid enough to believe that there was any avoiding the pain Al would feel when the guy was gone. In Ed's opinion, it was better that they got it over with sooner rather than later.

Then he remembered the blinding grins and carefree chuckles that had escaped his brother's very _human_ body and selfishly desired nothing more than to keep what they had going for as long as possible. Was that so wrong of him?

Fundamentally torn between Al's happiness and his protection, Ed didn't immediately notice when Hohenheim turned his head to watch him over his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed.

"His father," he mused, seemingly more to himself than Ed.

Unimpressed, he sardonically confirmed, "What, did you forget? I didn't think it'd been _that_ long."

"It's just not a word I had expected to hear from you."

Blinking, Ed could only stare uncomprehendingly at him for an immeasurable moment. Was…that meant to be a joke? Or was he being serious?

Either way, Hohenheim didn't give him a chance to think up a good retort before he continued, "And what about you?"

His question jostled Ed out of his confusion enough to blurt out, "What _about_ me?"

There was an instant—a brief, passing breath—where it looked like Hohenheim's carefully crafted mask was going to slip for the first time in Ed's memory. All his life, he'd had an image of his dad in his mind that never quite measured up to the figure Al saw when he thought back to their childhood. The stoic, aloof man that stood next to his mother in all his earliest recollections didn't smile. He didn't offer praise or do any of the stuff that Lieutenant Colonel Hughes had for Elicia; Ed highly doubted that anyone in Resembool could remember an occasion where Hohenheim had gone around bragging about how brilliant or adorable his sons were. Their mom, sure, but their dad? Nobody spoke of him besides Granny, and even she had long since abandoned the fondness that old drinking buddies were supposed to have for each other. His distance hadn't made him any friends when he was gone, that was for sure. Ed figured that was the occupational hazard of being a stony-faced bastard.

All of that vanished for a split second, however, before Hohenheim was able to shore up the dam that walled off his emotions from the rest of the world. Whether it was out of guilt for what he'd created that had dwelt in the bowels of Central or just a crappy personality, Ed didn't know. A part of him truly believed he'd never find out either.

Whatever he'd been about to say faded with his sudden transparency, and it was pretty obvious that he hadn't originally planned on assuring him, "Both of you have grown into fine young men without and perhaps even in spite of me."

When he didn't elaborate, Ed prompted him none too gently, "Meaning?"

"As I said," he sighed, a sad smile that turned Ed's stomach pulling at his lips, "I've overstayed my welcome."

 _Ugh, not that again._

If that was how he felt, Ed should have let him go. He should have issued the sort of scathing retort the jerk deserved, turned his back, and returned to his room to make sure that Al was all right.

Instead, before his better judgment could rein in his sharp tongue, Ed reiterated, "And as _I_ said, Al wou—"

"Look at me, Edward."

"I _am_."

"No. You're not."

It was then that Ed realized his gaze had once again found its way to the floor at some point in their conversation. Rolling his eyes impatiently, he raised them to confront Hohenheim head on—

—and couldn't rearrange his features quickly enough to avoid his jaw hitting the floor.

Hohenheim had finally abandoned the exit, facing Ed directly rather than hiding like he had been at the start of their conversation. In that moment, Ed recognized that it hadn't been disinterest that had kept his back half-turned towards him; his dad hadn't been hiding to make their imminent separation easier.

When he said he'd overstayed his welcome, he hadn't meant with his sons.

He'd been trying to keep Ed from seeing the transmutation marks that marred his cheeks. He'd been trying to avoid showing Ed that he looked more like a poorly constructed alchemical experiment by an amateur than a human being.

The unease that had settled in Ed's gut and the confusion that had niggled at the edge of his consciousness finally clicked together in perfect, terrible harmony.

"You… You idiot! You used up your philosopher's stone, didn't you?!" he screeched, pointing an incriminating finger at Hohenheim. The latter nodded in strained impassivity.

"I always knew that it wouldn't last forever," he replied. His shuttered expression flickered once more when he quietly added, "This is not how I thought it would happen."

Doctors always said that staying calm helped stave off panic. So did soldiers and the police. Ed, however, would have to make a mental note to call them on their crap later.

"How can you just _stand there_?!" he shouted. The disapproving glares he was attracting from the hospital staff harmlessly bounced off him. They didn't matter anyway. "How can you act like this is okay?!"

Quirking an eyebrow, Hohenheim angled his head minutely to the side and inquired, "What else would you suggest I do, Edward?"

He'd already lost this battle—he could tell right away—yet Ed nevertheless stammered, "You could… You…"

"Nothing will change what's going to happen. You already know that."

He did. Ed had seen enough evidence of that over the last few months alone. The philosopher's stone wasn't the indestructible miracle that he and Al had assumed all those years ago. It, like everything else in the world, was finite.

In Hohenheim's case, its time was up.

And in spite of the hatred Ed still bore for everything his father wasn't—in spite of his certainty that Hohenheim's presence wasn't the best thing for him or for Al—he didn't want to accept it. He wasn't _ready_ to accept it.

"Time waits for no man, Edward," Hohenheim murmured, seeming to sense the direction of his thoughts. For once, it didn't bother him.

Not as much as what he couldn't change, with or without alchemy.

Ed tried to swallow around the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, but it was a pointless effort. As such, he was forced to choke around it, "Guess you've kept Mom waiting too long anyway."

The smile that swept briefly across his dad's face was so relieved and reverent that it made Ed's heart ache in a much different manner than he was accustomed to.

"You're right. I have."

They probably could have left it at that. After all, what more was there to say when Ed couldn't and Hohenheim wouldn't defy what destiny had in store?

Regardless, when Hohenheim's fingers found their way back to the door handle, Ed exclaimed, "Just don't make her cry, or I'll knock you on your butt the second I get there."

This time, his smile lasted a little longer, although he dodged Ed's admittedly empty threat to say, "There is a great deal for me to tell her. I know she will be proud to hear everything that you boys have accomplished."

Reluctantly picturing his mother's face if she ever found out about their foray into human transmutation, Ed hesitantly implored him, "Uh…maybe not _everything_."

Hohenheim hummed knowingly. "Very well. In that case, I'll be selective."

Then he was gone.

No apologies. No goodbyes.

That was okay: it wasn't who they were. Never had been, and never would be. They were wordless stares that somehow said everything they needed to; they were silent acknowledgement and a closing door. The sole difference this time was that it wasn't going to open again.

With the quiet click of the latch, Ed was left standing alone in the hallway, and that was okay too.


	4. Ignition

Chapter Four: Ignition

"Brother, I _told_ you—I'm _fine_!"

Scoffing, Ed retorted, "Sure, until they let you outta here and you've got nothing to wear. You can't go running around Central in your pajamas, Al."

If his brother's new favorite pastime since getting his body back wasn't rolling his eyes, Ed would drink a whole gallon of milk in one sitting. They practically shook hands with his frontal lobe, they whirled so far around in their sockets.

"There's just no reason to spend your savings on clothes. Everything in Central is so expensive…"

"Well, it's not like we've got any other choice."

"Uh…actually…"

Ed blinked, narrowing his eyes at Al's sudden hesitation. It was seldom the case that his brother was lost for words. If anything, he seemed to know what to say in every circumstance that had Ed running for cover. Perhaps it was the invulnerability of living inside a suit of armor, or maybe he'd just gotten used to all the damage control that Ed's lack of inhibitions necessitated, but there was almost no stopping him once he got on a roll. Their argument about what the hell they were going to do when the hospital released him in a few weeks hadn't been in full swing for long; they'd only been interrupted by hospital staff checking in to make sure they weren't killing each other on two separate occasions. (That would sort of defeat the purpose of all their hard work, after all.) By all accounts, Al should've had enough steam to power on for a good hour at least.

Instead, his eyes darted between Ed and where his hands were folded in his lap as if what he _wanted_ to say might summon Father back from whatever hole he'd crawled out of.

"Actually _what_?" Ed demanded suspiciously once the silence edged past _strange_ towards _awkward_.

He didn't think it was possible, but Al's expression fell even further at the not so subtle prompting.

 _Oh, I'm not gonna like this._

"I…just thought that…maybe…"

With an impatient yet trepidatious huff, Ed prodded, "C'mon, spit it out."

Al paused, swallowed, and visibly gathered enough courage to look him in the eye when he blurted out, "I thought you could buy fabric and I can transmute some clothes."

The hush that stretched between them wasn't what Ed would call _uncomfortable_ , per se. It was more like getting hit in the face with a hammer, stubbing your toe, and falling off a cliff at the same time—what did you say at that point, right?

"Oh," was all that came out of his mouth for a while, though he made an honest effort to do better when Al winced in something akin to sympathy. Or pity. "Yeah, sure, I…guess you could do that."

For a second, he wondered if maybe he'd said something else, something that the dark corners of his mind had concocted from the bitter dregs of uncertainty (not regret—never regret) that still floated through his head days after the fact. Wouldn't that be just like him? Ed would be the first to admit that _maybe_ he didn't quite have a way with words like Al or Winry; even Mustang could talk circles around most people, although Ed wasn't sure if manipulation really counted as a valid social skill. Having them around meant that Ed could plow through any obstacles in his path without worrying about the diatribes that poured forth. Al would soothe wounded egos while Ed focused on getting the job done. The only downside was that it left him without much practice in filtering his thoughts. Sure, he _could_ , but it simply wasn't his first instinct.

That was why he mentally turned his statement over and over in his head, positive that he must have said something wrong for Al to look so unbearably _sad_ all of a sudden, to no avail. Honestly, he was pretty impressed with his own response. It was the perfect combination of big brother and confident fellow (former) alchemist. That should have set Al at ease, shouldn't it?

Wrong, apparently. Very wrong.

So, plastering a smile he didn't really feel on his face, Ed teased, "Just make sure it lasts till we get back to Resembool, huh? Your body probably isn't used to transmutation anymore."

It wasn't enough to fool Al—not nearly enough when he knew Ed so well—but his brother didn't call him on his bluff. He paused just a beat too long, seemingly considering not letting him evade the subject of his own lost alchemy, then smirked as haughtily as someone like Al would ever be able to muster.

"My body survived all those years at the gate. A little alchemy should be no problem, Brother."

Ed hummed, collapsing into the bed that was reserved for him despite his discharge and staring at the ceiling. "You've got a point, Al. Hangin' around the Truth that long? I definitely couldn't have done that."

"'Course not. _You_ can't stand being outwitted."

"Hey, who's the one who beat him at his own game?!"

"I don't think practically kicking down the door qualifies as _beating him at his own game_."

"Y'know, Al, sometimes I wonder how we're even related."

"I think everyone did when I was still in that armor," he mused wryly, to which Ed had to laugh.

"You got that right. I'm kinda surprised no one ever tried to take off your helmet to see the family resemblance."

"Yeah. We sure got lucky, huh?"

Luck…wasn't really the word Ed would have chosen. After everything they'd been through, he figured it was the exact opposite. They'd lost everything; their family had disintegrated right before their eyes. The only chance they'd had to reclaim it went so spectacularly wrong that his auto-mail leg twinged painfully at the memory. (Or maybe the slight chill to the air in their room. It was a toss-up.) Ed had sacrificed his childhood to do right by Al and his freedom when he became a dog of the military. They'd spent years… Well, maybe he wasn't _exactly_ following orders most of the time. He'd been given missions, but they were few and far enough between that he was able to comfortably slot their hunt for a philosopher's stone into their schedule. Even so, his time hadn't been his own; every thought was centered around how to get their bodies back. Countless people had been hurt in the process, in some cases their lives ruined forever. If he believed in such things, Ed would have suspected that they'd been cursed.

 _But_ , a traitorous little voice that spoke in Winry's cadences whispered inside his head, _you always had each other._

That was perhaps the sole bit of luck he could concede that they'd been graced with since they were kids. Except for a few months there, they'd always been together; even then, the separation hadn't been complete. Ed could feel Al in his soul like a living, breathing part of him. His brother _was_ his arm. He was his leg. He was his heart. The entire country couldn't truly keep them apart.

And, when he really pondered it…they hadn't been alone either. Mustang had been there to jerk their chains. Hawkeye had been there to have their backs. Their teacher had made them a part of her family, though she had a funny way of showing it. Ling and Greed had never given up on them. May had stuck a little _too_ close at times, as had Scar.

For once in their lives, Hohenheim had been there when they needed him.

So, yeah. Maybe they hadn't been so unlucky after all. Things could definitely have been a whole lot worse, odd as it was to believe.

For example, his little brother could have sensed the direction of his thoughts and decided to bring up a topic that Ed had hoped their argument would dissuade. Because _that_ was exactly what he wanted right now when more pressing matters were at hand.

"Speaking of transmutation…" Ed didn't have to hear the rest to know what was coming, yet Al persisted under the absolutely correct assumption that Ed wasn't about to help him get the words out. "When are you going to visit the colonel and Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

 _So much for luck._

Sighing heavily, Ed glared at the ceiling and muttered, "What'd you have to go and bring _that_ up for?"

There was a slight ruffling of sheets as Al undoubtedly shrugged. "You're the one who changed the subject."

"Because it's not important."

"How can you say that, Brother? We wouldn't _be here_ if it weren't for them," Al chided. "You should at least go see if he's feeling any better."

It would have been useless to point out that it wasn't like the bastard had come looking for _them_ either. Much as it pained him to admit it, that wasn't really in the cards what with his newfound disability. Well, up until yesterday, anyway.

"You heard what Marcoh said," countered Ed, the vision of the former state alchemist and Dr. Knox standing at the door still fresh in his mind. "I'll bet he's back to his usual annoying self by now. Probably strutting around waiting for them to make him the führer."

It certainly wouldn't be the first time Mustang wore his ambitions on his sleeve, regardless of how good his intentions were. The guy couldn't possibly be any worse than an undercover homunculus with a hidden agenda to destroy the entire country and all its people, even if the tiny, resentful part of him that spent its time thinking up clever names for his commanding officer wanted to argue otherwise. All things considered, he grudgingly figured that maybe the colonel was suited to the task. He had skeletons in his closet—a whole lot more than Ed did, which was saying something—and a past so full of fire and death that he couldn't possibly be able to sleep at night without remembering now and again. Was that such a bad thing, though? If that was what it took for him to learn from his mistakes and make life better for everyone, then perhaps it wouldn't be so bad calling him Führer Mustang someday.

Not that Ed ever _would_ , but it wouldn't sound terrible in his head. Probably.

Who was he kidding? He'd cringe every single time he imagined that pompous bastard sitting behind the most important desk in the country demanding his however-many cens back. But it still wouldn't be the worst. Nope, definitely not the worst.

The _worst_ was having to go see if Marcoh and Knox had worked a miracle on his eyes after their visit the previous day. Ed would never understand why they'd come to him first with the offer of a lifetime, but he'd turned them away almost as soon as their intentions were out in the open. In fact, the only thing that had stopped him from booting them out _before_ that was Al's hopeful gaze. Some things didn't change, and Al's devotion to Ed despite the latter doing nothing to earn it was one of them. The idea that there was one final philosopher's stone in their possession was his last chance to get back what he'd lost; his arm had returned, but his leg could still use a little work. Employing the stone they'd rescued, he could be a whole person again. The Truth would have to give him his leg without any equivalent exchange. The best part was that he wouldn't have to do the transmutation himself. Marcoh or even Al could have gotten the job done, and they wouldn't have had to pay any price for it. No leg for a leg; no leg for a _life_. Ed would have been whole, no strings attached.

Except there _were_.

No, the souls that were lost to create that stone couldn't be saved. There was no way to return them to their former state; Father and Envy had made that abundantly clear. Utilizing the stone for what it had been forged to accomplish wouldn't hurt anyone; if anything, it would at least give their sacrifice some meaning. A life for a leg, indeed. Who was Ed to take advantage, though? What had happened to him was his own damn fault. He'd come to terms with that a long time ago and spent every waking moment since regretting his decision to try and bring their mother back, especially when it meant roping Al into it as well. Losing his leg was a small price to pay for doing precisely what Father had. He could live with that, just like their dad had chosen to die with it.

There was someone else, however, who _hadn't_ made that choice. Someone who had paid a heavy price when someone else had forced them to commit the ultimate taboo. Someone who was just as much a victim as every soul trapped forever in the philosopher's stone that Ed had refused to let Marcoh and Knox use on him.

He didn't need his leg, he'd said. Auto-mail worked just fine.

He didn't need to stitch his insides back together where they had once been impaled by a steel beam. While Al had sputtered indignantly at having missed _that_ bit of news, Ed had long since been treated and was fine with the scars it had left behind.

Hohenheim was beyond their reach now, so there was no point in trying to call him back to Central to extend what limited time he had left. Ed and Al had silently agreed on that when Ed had returned to their room after _not_ saying goodbye to find that his little brother was awake and staring at him with knowingly wide eyes.

So, he'd passed up the opportunity to feel grass between ten toes instead of five when they returned to Resembool because although he would never say it aloud, they really _wouldn't_ have gotten this far if it weren't for one particular bastard and his determination to rule the country. For that, he supposed he could part with the one thing he'd joined the military to find.

That didn't mean he'd had the courage to actually face the guy, though. Far from it. While most of Mustang's unit had filtered in and out since the Promised Day, the colonel had been conspicuously absent; not even his men had mentioned him, skirting the subject as if he were on his deathbed or something. It was nowhere near that bad—Ed was positive of that. Even so, the colonel was a looming shadow that never came into focus, a boogeyman that refused to show itself to anyone but Ed, and in the flesh at that. Eventually, he wouldn't have much of a choice but to admit defeat and get the conversation he wasn't eager to have out of the way. His pocket watch was a constant reminder of that every time it winked at him in the sunlight from his bedside table.

And so was Al, who apparently wasn't willing to just _let it go_.

"Do you really think he plans to be führer so soon?" he inquired curiously, the implications muted for the time being.

Now it was Ed's turn to shrug. "I dunno. He's the one who said he wanted to turn the place into a democracy, so maybe he'll wait until the people vote for him."

Power-hungry bastard that he was, there was still no denying that Mustang wanted to earn his stars the _right_ way. Ed had to admire that, if _only_ that.

Humming, Al pointedly remarked, "I guess he'll have to decide before they release him from the hospital."

"Yup, guess so," Ed replied blithely.

"How soon do you think that'll be?"

"Hey, I've got an idea. How about _you_ go ask him?"

"Brother."

That was all it took: one word contained all the arguments Al could have outlined in detail over the next few hours. Ed _hated_ when he did that.

"You're not gonna shut up till I go see him, are ya?" he deadpanned. Al, contrarily, seemed pleased that he'd finally caught on to his not so clever ruse.

"Nope."

Ed heaved a sigh that sounded a lot more like a growl than he'd meant it to, snatched his pocket watch off the bedside table, and hauled himself to his feet. If Al was going to be like _that_ …

"Fine, but don't blame me if I punch the bastard in the mouth."

"You won't," trilled Al patiently, obviously satisfied with his victory.

"Depends on what comes out of it," Ed grumbled over his shoulder as he stepped into the hallway and slammed the door behind him for emphasis. His little brother wouldn't believe that his temper might get the better of him regardless of what he said or how loudly he stomped down the corridor towards the stairs, but that didn't mean he couldn't attempt to make it sound more convincing nevertheless.

Because while there were certain topics of conversation he didn't want to have with Al until they were back home (maybe not even then, if he was being honest), the one he admittedly needed to have with Mustang topped the list of most awkward situations he would be in since almost seeing Winry…

 _Don't think about that_ , he cringed inwardly. It crept into his consciousness every now and again to scramble his brain and make his cheeks heat up like Xerxes in the summertime. At the moment, he didn't have time for that crap. His head needed to be screwed on just right if he was going to discuss the future with Mustang.

It wasn't like he had much of a choice. Of that, he was completely sure. Once he stepped in that room, once he started down the slippery slope of asking whether the colonel and lieutenant really were on the mend as Marcoh had promised, there would be no avoiding the inevitable question—the one he tried not to think about let alone put himself in a position to be asked. After all, Ed still didn't know the answer. Hours spent quietly in the room he shared with Al had done nothing to help in that regard. Maybe if he'd been able to get out there and help, to be of _use_ to someone, it would have been different. Instead, he'd been stewing over what the hell he was supposed to do when he was all but worthless. Unlike the suit of armor Al had been trapped in, he wasn't strong; he'd grown a lot over the last year and might do a little more now that he wasn't eating for two with so much auto-mail weighing him down, but he wasn't big enough to haul around debris like the soldiers that were still cleaning up Central. It had occurred to him a couple of times that he could go see if they needed an extra pair of hands, then the size of those hands brought him up short. He wouldn't be helping these days. He'd be a hindrance.

So, he'd stayed at the hospital and put on a good show of getting back to normal despite feeling like there was something _missing_. Not a leg or an arm—that was more of a physical thing. Even though his mind was still intact and the Truth hadn't taken his _knowledge_ of alchemy, the understanding that clapping his hands together and attempting to use it would be pointless seemed to have dug its own hole into his consciousness until there were moments when it was all he could think about. At times like that, the idea of seeing Mustang was even less palatable than usual, especially when he was more likely to dump manure in that hole than anything else.

At least the guy couldn't give him missions after today, though. Or look down on him like he was a speck on those ugly boots of his. Ed would have preferred submitting his resignation in writing to avoid any interaction, but he figured that was a fair trade-off given the circumstances.

That was what he tried desperately to remind himself as he stood outside the door to the colonel's room, fist poised just above the surface as he debated whether or not to knock before facing whatever destiny had in store for him. Until, of course, destiny reminded him that it had always been a real jerk and took the decision right out of his hands.

"Oh, Edward," Lieutenant Hawkeye greeted him in surprise when she opened the door and just about tripped over him.

"Lieutenant," he replied, forcing himself not to peer over her shoulder to see if he was fortunate enough to have missed Mustang. If the smirk that twitched at the corners of her lips was any indication, he'd be willing to bet that no such luck was waiting for him today.

 _Figures._

"It's good to see you." Smiling sincerely, she added, "I'm sorry we haven't made it to visit you and Alphonse yet. How is he feeling?"

Now _that_ was what Ed had always liked about the lieutenant. Unlike her superior officer, she radiated nothing but genuine sentiment when she wasn't out there kicking ass and showing everyone how it was done. When _she_ said she was sorry, Ed knew that she meant it.

That was why he managed to smile around the lump of nerves in his throat when he answered, "He's doing a lot better, thanks. How about you two? Doctor Marcoh said you guys were doing okay now."

Hawkeye's smile turned teasing. "We're hanging in there. In fact, you might be just the medicine the colonel needs."

"Uh…"

"I heard that," a familiar voice called from behind her, unimpressed as ever. It did nothing to diminish her humor, however, and she stepped aside to give Ed a clearer view of the utter mess on the other side of the door frame.

Well, maybe _mess_ wasn't the right word for it. Ultimately, it looked more like someone had tried to recreate the colonel's desk using an entire room rather than just a slab of wood. There were books stacked on every surface, including the floor in places, and papers were strewn across both mattresses with sloppy handwriting scrawled across them. A pile of heavy tomes nearly hid Mustang from view where he was poring over one in his lap, his brow furrowed in frustration as he apparently tried to make sense of Ishvalan agricultural norms. Not exactly what Ed would call a page-turner, and if the colonel's expression was anything to go by, they were in agreement on that one.

All things considered, it definitely wasn't the sort of tableau Ed had anticipated, and he blurted out, "If he's actually doing his paperwork, then maybe he really _is_ sick."

Mustang huffed indignantly and glanced up from his task long enough to scathingly retort, "I'll have you know that my paperwork _always_ gets done, Fullmetal."

"Of course it does, Colonel," soothed Hawkeye, "eventually."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

If the lieutenant heard his squawking, she hid it well. Her smile was utterly unruffled when she gave Ed a gentle push into the room, murmured a quick, "I'll let the two of you talk," and closed the door behind her.

Which, okay, wasn't _totally_ unexpected. Ed had been alone with Mustang plenty of times. No big deal. It was part of their work. Even so, that didn't mean he hadn't sort of been relying on the fact that the colonel's babysitter would be there to kill some of the awkwardness.

Instead, it hung in the air between them, heavy and obvious enough that even Mustang's shoulders were clearly a bit tense where he was doing his best to scribble something in the margins of the text rather than meet Ed's eyes. Then again, was that such a big surprise? Last time they'd been in the same room, the colonel hadn't been able to see anything; he'd required assistance from everyone around him just to _walk_. If there was one thing Mustang hated more than anything else, it was appearing weak in public. Or private. Or…anywhere, really.

So, yeah, maybe it made sense that he seemed to want to dive into the pages before him rather than hold a conversation with Ed.

That was fine by him, at least for the time being. It gave him ample opportunity to scrutinize some of the other books that he assumed the rest of the team had brought from Central's libraries before they got down to business. Despite the vast array of volumes, it quickly became apparent that they all shared one glaring characteristic: they dealt with Ishval. Not just the place, but _everything_ about it. Agriculture, architecture, religion, customs, geography—by the time he was done going through all this, Ed thought Mustang might as well become an honorary member of the Ishvalan race. He'd probably know more about it than they did, which was really saying something.

 _He really is planning on trying to fix things…_

It didn't surprise him. Ed had known for a while that the colonel's skeletons knocked a lot harder on the closet door than his own and that Mustang was desperate to atone for what he'd done in the name of their corrupt government. Rebuilding must have been step one, although it didn't bode well for his ambitions of becoming führer. A leader had to work for the entire country, not just one part of it. They wouldn't have the time to dedicate all their efforts in reconstructing an entire culture and civilization. It was a position that would require thinking for everyone— _acting_ for everyone—not merely a few.

It was a start, though. Knowing Mustang, repaying the debts he owed for the extermination of Ishval was only part of his plan. The rest of Amestris would be watching all the while, admiring him for doing so much for the underdogs of their society, for providing a home to the people who had helped save Amestris from the same fate as Xerxes when they damn well shouldn't have seen a reason to. The Ishvalans could have left, found refuge in Xing or something. That wasn't what they'd chosen, though, not even Scar. Rather, they had saved the very people who had committed such heinous acts against them. That sort of thing would go a long way in shaping public opinion, as would Mustang's restitution.

Was the colonel _really_ smart enough to think that far ahead, though?

 _Wouldn't put anything past him. Actually…_ Ed inwardly smirked. _Wouldn't put anything past the lieutenant._

After all, the guy would never have made it this far if it weren't for his far more competent underling—and he _knew it_ , too.

Which…really wasn't the most complimentary thing to be thinking when Mustang finally decided to address him.

"It's good to see you in one piece, Ed."

For a fraction of a second, he thought the colonel was making one of his typical snide remarks about Ed missing a couple of limbs and nearly threw one of his own barbs right back at him. It wasn't until he whirled around to see the somber expression on Mustang's face that the pieces clicked into place: the last time they both had literally _seen_ each other, Father's crony had forced him through the gate. Come to think of it, that was the first instance in which he'd had an audience that didn't know what was going to happen. His first two forays into the forbidden had been with Al or on his own; Envy and Ling had preceded him through the portal when they'd escaped Gluttony's stomach. Having seen what it did to them… Having remembered what it had done to his own body at the very start… Well, he figured it made sense that Mustang was staring at him as if he couldn't believe _something_ hadn't been left behind once again. He wouldn't have had visual confirmation during the battle.

That thought had Ed shifting his weight uncomfortably as he replied, "Yeah, you too. Guess Marcoh and Knox fixed your eyes, huh?"

Mustang hummed in affirmation, pausing a moment before asking, "Are you angry with me for using the stone?"

It would have been a whole lot more satisfying, given their relationship, to say _yes_. But… Hey, Ed could be in a charitable mood every now and then, right?

As long as Al _never_ found out.

"Nah, I get it," Ed waved him off, dismissive yet honest. "Kinda need to see if you're gonna be führer someday, y'know?"

"It certainly helps," agreed Mustang with his smuggest grin. He had the grace not to poke fun at Ed for not immediately tearing into him, but the latter wasn't about to see if his luck was going to last and nodded pointedly towards the makeshift library around them.

"So, what's with all the reading material? Goin' on vacation?"

Come on—one of them had to be a smart ass, right?

The colonel didn't take offense to Ed's downplaying and scoffed, "You and I both know there's no time for that. With the government in ruins, the people are looking to whoever's left to lead. My team spent a lot of energy making sure they trust me to do so. Now isn't the time to be sunbathing."

"But it _is_ a time to be reading?"

"You can't help the people until you know them. The Ishvalans have waited long enough for reparations." Mustang shrugged, closing his book and setting it carelessly atop the stack beside him. "If I have to be stuck in this room, I may as well start learning all I can about them. I'd like to hit the ground running once I'm discharged."

Frowning, Ed remarked, "Would've thought they'd want you out as soon as you could see again. It's not like they don't have plenty of other patients to worry about."

Mustang snorted, although it sounded more irritated than amused. "I thought so, too. It seems that they want to make sure the stone did its job so I don't suddenly lose my sight and stumble over a cliff."

"Wouldn't that be tragic," Ed sighed sarcastically.

If he'd been talking to anyone else, they might have kicked him out. Fortunately (or perhaps _unfortunately_ ), this was the colonel. He never resorted to booting Ed from the room as soon as he opened his mouth.

As always, Mustang gave as good as he got.

"I'm sure General Grumman wouldn't be all that upset about it. Or, should I say, _Führer_ Grumman."

 _"_ _Grumman_?!" sputtered Ed, uncomprehending. "That old guy from East City?!"

Smirking, Mustang confirmed, "Yes, though you might want to find a more respectful way of addressing him. I doubt that the leader of the country would want to be called _that old guy from East City_."

The suggestion went in one ear and out the other. Ed was too busy wondering how the hell _that_ old fart had been appointed the guy in charge—and by _whom_ —to pay much attention. Shaking his head, he plopped onto the edge of the lieutenant's mattress, scattering a few of the papers with a delicate _crunch_. The words came out before he could think better of them.

"You're kidding. I thought _you_ …"

There was a brief moment where neither of them spoke, then Mustang finished for him, "You thought that _I_ was going to be führer?"

When he said it like that, it sounded more absurd than it had in his head. Even worse was the tone of his voice, which Ed hadn't heard on very many occasions before. He could count them on one hand.

And just like that, the _abort mission_ sirens started going off in his brain.

 _Joining the military was good for something._

Ed shook his head to clear his sudden bout of insanity and hurried to retort, "I mean, that was the whole point, wasn't it? You get Bradley out of the way so you get to be on top?"

Not his most scathing reply, but it would do.

Mustang didn't answer right away, instead turning Ed's borderline accusation over in his head while staring at him with those all too familiar inscrutable eyes of his. It was something he hadn't allowed himself to consider when he'd first discovered the price that the colonel had been forced to pay, but thinking back on it… The idea of never being held captive under that gaze again was actually a little…sad? Weird? He wasn't sure what word really fit the emotion. All he could say—and _definitely_ not out loud—was that it would actually have been a bit disappointing to never see _this_ side of Mustang again.

Until he opened his mouth, of course. That always put a damper on any mood.

"Eventually," he allowed, folding his arms over his chest. "Then again, I didn't think that the plot went as deep as it did. If it had been just one man, that would have been easily remedied. The fact that half the government was in on it changes things. Grumman has a good service record, and he's _old_ enough"—he tacked on with a sneer—"that people won't question his ability to lead. For now, that's more important than the number of stars on my lapel."

A few weeks ago, Ed wouldn't have hesitated to ask whether that was how he really felt or if the lieutenant had been the one to plant that idea in his head. (Or, more accurately, whether she had beaten it into his head.) Today, though, there was no mistaking the genuine resolve in Mustang's expression. This wasn't the colonel who deflected so that everyone would think he was a bigger idiot than he honestly could be; this wasn't a game that would ultimately land him the highest seat of power in the land.

It was just a soldier wanting to do the right thing for now.

And for now, that was more than enough.

As such, Ed couldn't bring himself to comment like he normally would. He didn't toss back a witticism or sarcastically insinuate that Mustang hadn't earned the stars that he'd already been granted. There would be time for that later.

Whether his lack of a response was good or bad, he wasn't sure. Either way, he wasn't quite prepared when Mustang shifted the subject without warning to precisely what he had been avoiding in the first place.

"So, Ed," the colonel began, "what do _you_ plan to do now?"

There it was. Right on schedule.

Gaze defensively darting to the window, Ed played as dumb as he could. "What d'you mean?"

Sadly, the colonel wasn't fooled. That was another thing that made him a real bastard: he never let Ed get away with evasion, whatever the topic. Other people, sure. They took pity on him because of his age. Not the colonel.

Mustang gestured needlessly at his less muscular appendage and elaborated, "You have your arm. Alphonse has his body back. What comes next?"

The implications of Ed's newfound helplessness remained unmentioned but could be felt all the same, and Ed swallowed hard. Al and their dad hadn't asked him much about what was going to happen now, which was actually pretty strange for the former. Maybe it was simply that they could read each other's minds half the time, but his brother had merely assumed exactly what Ed had resigned himself to: going back to Resembool, finding Winry, and then… Well, there was never any _and then_ when they spoke about it. Al was reluctant to mention anything to do with alchemy, probably for fear that Ed would go off on some bitter tirade about how he was going to get left in the dust. Despite the credit Ed thought he was owed for knowing how to keep his mouth shut when it suited him, he also couldn't deny that his brother wouldn't be too far off the mark in that regard. Going from being the more talented alchemist of the two of them to just… _nothing_? That was going to take some getting use to.

He'd never say it where Al could hear, though. That would be stupid, especially when he didn't resent his brother for a moment. If it was the difference between living the rest of his life without Al or without alchemy, Ed would make the same choice every time.

That still didn't assuage the pain of knowing that everything he'd worked so hard for was gone forever. It didn't assuage the dread that erupted in the pit of his stomach whenever Al started a sentence that may land them right where this conversation had. Ed anticipated that particular torment now as well, waited for it to rear its ugly head and bite him in the ass as usual…

Only in this instance, it didn't materialize, and Ed was surprised to realize he didn't need to wonder why.

Mustang wasn't Al. He definitely wasn't their father. The expectations Ed hated to admit that he felt where they were concerned wasn't present when the colonel was the interrogator. Could anyone blame him? The guy had _chosen_ to make Ed a part of his team, however minor his position within it was when the colonel couldn't keep him in East City with the rest of them. Mustang had seen him at his absolute worst—a crippled child with seemingly nothing to contribute to his own family let alone the nation at large—and _still chose him_. Ed's missing two limbs hadn't deterred the colonel; Mustang hadn't scoffed at his age. (His height was a different matter, the bastard.) Hohenheim had to at least care a little because of their relationship, and Al had no alternative when they were similarly connected by blood, but Mustang? Like him or hate him, he'd kept Ed around because he _wanted_ him there. If anyone wasn't going to judge him for his… _condition_ , it would be him.

There was no judgment in those eyes. Curiosity, absolutely. A hint of concern that Ed was attempting to ignore, most assuredly. But no judgment.

 _Huh. Well,_ that's _refreshing._

"Haven't really decided yet," Ed lied with a shrug, his watch seeming suddenly heavier in his pocket as he leaned back on his palms and stared towards the window again. "We'll probably head back home once Al's all clear. Gonna need some maintenance before this thing calls it quits."

He tapped his auto-mail leg against the floor for emphasis, and Mustang nodded in agreement.

"Wouldn't want your mechanic finishing the job when the homunculi couldn't."

Snorting, Ed replied, "You got that right."

"And after that?"

The smirk on the colonel's face told Ed that the former could sense when his brain screeched to a halt. _As if you could get out of answering the question that easily_ , it seemed to say, and Ed was seized by the powerful urge to deck him in the mouth as he'd warned Al he might.

Al. Who wouldn't have his body again if it weren't for this bastard.

 _Son of a…_

So, rather than resort to violence, Ed settled for rolling his eyes impatiently. "I don't know."

"But you've thought about it."

"'Course I've _thought_ about it."

"And you've decided to stay in Resembool."

"You don't know that!"

Mustang quirked an eyebrow at him in that superior, holier than thou, _I'm a jerk_ fashion he seemed to have perfected without actually answering. Unfortunately, that expression said it all, and Ed found himself digging around for the watch that had announced his station for the last few years to dump it unceremoniously on the bedside table. Or what little he could find of it, anyway.

"There. You happy?" he demanded testily. To his surprise, Mustang's response wasn't as sarcastic as he was expecting.

"That one of my most productive soldiers is retiring? Whatever gave you that idea?"

Ed couldn't help but snicker bitterly at that. "Productive? How many times did you drag me into your office to yell at me for being too _productive_?"

Shrugging, the colonel shot back, "Your methods may have been irresponsible and ill-advised, but there's no arguing that you got the job done. Collateral damage aside."

"Damn right I di— _hey_!" he huffed, much to Mustang's apparent amusement. It only lasted a moment, however, before his expression turned downwards.

"But you're putting all that behind you, is that right? Retiring to the country to watch the grass grow for the rest of your life?"

It wasn't condescending—not _really_ —but the disapproval rolled off him in waves until Ed could hardly stand it. What did _Mustang_ know about anything? He'd go back to his cushy office, hopefully make good on those promises he talked a good game about, and then end up running this country one day if he played his cards right. If he snapped his fingers, sparks would still turn into infernos. He had plenty of options, his past transgressions notwithstanding. Ed, on the other hand, had one.

"The hell d'you expect?" he practically growled in frustration that had nothing to do with the seeming hopelessness of his new situation. As always, the colonel was prepared to meet him blow for blow.

"I wouldn't say I _expected_ anything, although I'm surprised that _you_ of all people would give up so easily."

"I'm not givin' up!"

"Is that so?"

" _Yeah_!"

"And how exactly does running home to Resembool translate to _not giving up_?"

Fists clenched, Ed angrily rejoined, "What _else_ am I supposed to do?! You can't be a state _alchemist_ without being able to do _alchemy_!"

"Since when was that your only option?"

In spite of the fury still roiling in his stomach, Ed found himself at a loss for words. Mustang, true to form, took advantage of his speechlessness.

"You have a lot more to offer than just your _alchemy_ , Ed. Or did you think so many people looked to you for help because magic happened when you clapped your hands?"

…He wasn't going to answer that. Instead, he sat in stunned silence while the colonel pressed the issue.

"There's a lot more to the world than alchemy, and there's certainly a lot that you haven't explored. Your knowledge could be of use to others. This isn't the first time an alchemist nearly brought our world to ruin, and I guarantee that it won't be the last. What you know—what you've _seen_ —can help ensure that we never face potential ruin again." Pausing briefly, Mustang surveyed him closely before concluding, "You've got a lot more to offer than you seem to realize, Fullmetal."

Whether it was some latent military programming or just the short fuse he'd always toted around, the epithet was what had Ed rising to his feet and stalking towards the door even as his mind whirled at the show of…confidence? Manipulation? It was so hard to tell with the colonel sometimes. One second, he'd be talking to Roy Mustang; the next, he'd be rolling his eyes at the ranking officer that always had an alphabet's worth of alternative plans to work through to ensure that things ended up in his favor. This was no different. Part of him wanted to believe that the guy was genuine while the rest argued that it was another game to get Ed to do whatever it was he wanted this time. It was no secret that he'd been the poster child for Mustang's talent in recruiting for a while after his enlistment. Who was to say that this wasn't merely another drop in the bucket of his popularity for when a vote _would_ matter?

So, reason aside, soft internal voices arguing to the contrary notwithstanding, Ed made for the door with a mumbled, "Sure, yeah. Rub it in."

The gentle clinking of metal on metal caught his attention, and he just barely turned to catch the familiar timepiece that was tossed towards him before it hit his back. On the other side of the room, Mustang's nose had somehow returned to his book, a subtle yet undeniable nod to the reality that there were no strings attached to it as there had been with the philosopher's stone. Not one. In fact, it was lighter than he remembered where it lay in the palm of his hand, the carving smiling up at him in innocent curiosity.

"It may be the end of an era, but it takes a lot more than alchemy to make you Fullmetal," was all the colonel said, a gentle dismissal that was still powerful enough to stop Ed in his tracks.

 _More than alchemy…_

 _More than alchemy._

Years back, he wouldn't have believed it to be possible. What could be _more_ than alchemy? Alchemy was power; it was wisdom and strength all rolled into one. Alchemists ruled the land and bent it to their will, even going so far as to challenge the will of God if they chose. There was no _more_. It was the limitless apex that he had aspired to for so long.

But if alchemy was _all_ , then what about the _one_?

What about Al, lying in a bed on another floor in a body that could sleep and eat and _feel_ for the first time in years?

What about Mustang, who had been willing to sacrifice everything for a bunch of people he didn't know even if he did crave their approbation in return to some degree?

What about Hohenheim, an absentee father who had come through for them in the end?

What about their mother, their light in the darkness that had served as both their greatest strength and most intense weakness?

Winry, Granny, Ling, Armstrong… The list went on and on until he felt certain he had to be forgetting someone.

Ed had spent a lot of hours since the Promised Day pondering all that could have gone wrong—that _would_ have gone wrong—if he hadn't had them and so many others at his side. _They_ were more than alchemy, weren't they? If they weren't, he never would have given it up.

It _wasn't_ his alchemy that made him Fullmetal. It was everything else.

And there was a lot more out there waiting for him. No more living for restitution and forgiveness; no more obsessing over making amends. He could do whatever he wanted now—go wherever he chose and do anything he liked. Just like the silver watch gripped tightly in his palm, there were no strings on him anymore. His family—the family he hadn't realized he had—made him Fullmetal. What, then, would the rest of the world forge him into?

For the first time since he'd bidden the Truth goodbye and left his alchemy behind, Ed felt excitement stirring in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't sure and couldn't predict the answer to his own question, but he wanted to find out.

 _More than alchemy… Guess he's not totally useless._

"A whole world, huh?" Ed mused with a glance over his shoulder, his mouth stretching into a grin.

Mustang didn't meet his gaze. He didn't even answer.

His smirk said it all.

 _Bastard._

* * *

 **A/N:** **I'm so sorry for the long delay. Kingdom Hearts 3 came out right after my last update, and as a 17-year-and-counting fan, I'm afraid that it encompassed my entire being ever since. In any case, I hope you enjoyed the last chapter! I initially planned for another after this, but I really liked ending it with Ed and Mustang. I'll be working on a canon divergent AU that will be posted in the future, but there are a couple of stories for other fandoms in my queue that need attention first. Thank you so much for reading!**


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